Dying Of The Light

11

A full moon does no-one any favours, Lena Stirling thought sourly, slipping into the shadow of the warehouse, finding herself now exposed to a harsh wind which swept along the corridor of Seafield Road, slicing through her thin clothes and leaving litter dancing merrily in its wake. She cupped her hands together and blew into them, fingertips bloodless and painful, her eyes still wide for any passing traffic. For the second time that evening a silver Mercedes glided past, the driver’s gaze never leaving hers, but it continued its stately progress, red tail lights receding into pinpricks as it reached the horizon. Yet another man, she thought, out window shopping, but unable to pluck up the courage to make an actual purchase. Of these soiled goods, at least.

Stepping back again from the pavement edge she heard a crack as the ice on a large puddle broke under her weight, cold water immediately flooding into her left shoe. And on her thirtieth birthday, for fuck’s sake! She shook her foot, and as she was doing so another car began to approach, moving slowly like a stalking cat, coming to a halt directly opposite her. As the window was being rolled down she ambled closer, relieved finally to have secured a punter, and crouched down to speak to the driver.

Suddenly, something scalding landed on her face, making her recoil instantly. Screaming in pain, she pawed her eye sockets in a desperate attempt to rid them of the burning liquid. Frantically, she wiped hot slime from her cheeks with her coat sleeves, then put her hand to her head, finding her hair matted with the same gunk. It was dribbling down her jacket too, and the smell was entirely familiar. The bastard had flung his carry-out at her; sweet and sour pork, the weapon of choice. As she looked at the Fiesta it tore off, horn parp-parping in triumph.

Sunk in uncharacteristic despair, she slowly closed her eyes, blocking out the world and everyone in it. For many years she had not allowed herself time to think. In her first weeks on the street she had occasionally done so, until one awful morning something had struck her, something blindingly obvious but which, nonetheless, she had not figured out before. And it was that there was no way back. But now, feeling suddenly more miserable than she could bear, her brain started to work overtime, unconstrained, uncensored, careless where her thoughts might take her or what damage they might do. Opening old wounds and picking at old sores.

How had she failed to realise that that first, hurried transaction would change everything? Stupid, stupid bitch. Thanks to it, she had become a whore and could never unbecome one. It was not like being a junkie, you could be ‘cured’ of that habit, cleaned up, your reputation restored. But this had less to do with what the world now thought of her, more to do with what she now thought of herself. Knew, in fact. That she was worthless. Since that revelation the most ordinary acts of human kindness had seemed unexpected, each one a bonus; and disdain, if not disgust, had become the price of truth. Whoring was not like any other job, any other profession. The lying involved destroyed your past and your present, and there was no future. As if in a daze, she had chosen it and burnt her boats. Three whole days after leaving school.

A stout man was ambling along the pavement towards her, and despite her dejection and bedraggled state, she automatically looked up into his face, intending to smile her willingness, needing a fix whatever the cost. But the sight of his balaclava-covered head startled her, frightening her sick, until she reminded herself of the jubilant newspaper headlines, felt the freezing weather and calmed down. Perhaps he was simply a Leith resident worried that he might be recognised? Or maybe the boot would be on the other foot and he would be put off by her unclean appearance? It had never happened before, mind. Looking her in the face, he gave a slight nod, and then began to speak, and as soon as he did so she relaxed, certain that she recognised his voice. Good, it must a regular, or perhaps someone she had been with just the once before – so much the better on a night like this. No time wasted haggling, talking or anything much else. With luck she would be home within the next forty minutes, out of the cold, back with the kit to share with Archie.

While Lena Stirling was shaking the water from her shoe, cursing the world and its inhabitants roundly, Bill Keane was giving his front door an almighty slam. Let Audrey hear it! Let the whole bloody lot of them hear it! Another precious evening wasted on tart patrol, and if it was his turn, ‘if’ being the operative word, it seemed to be coming round mighty quickly. Someone, somewhere, was not pulling his weight. And, worst of all, he would miss Glamour Night at the photography club, a bi-monthly treat he had arranged for the delectation of the members, or at least most of them. He kicked a tin can out of the gutter, watching unconcerned as it flew up to land directly in a cyclist’s path, finding himself equally unmoved by the V-sign flashed at him by the irate rider.

Anyway, this whole thing was becoming a complete waste of time, a sodding fiasco, no less. Thanks to the ‘Leith Killer’, as the papers unimaginatively insisted on labelling the fellow, heedless of the effect such a title might have on house prices in the area, the hussies had become increasingly scarce. Like house buyers, in fact. The downside of his capture being, obviously, that the rest of the coneys would now re-emerge from their burrows and resume their traditional pastime. But not yet surely? They were brazen but not actually barmy.

Thinking about things, perhaps if he raced at full pelt to Carron Place, a highly favoured venue, he could forget about the other places, Ma Aitken’s and so on. Then he could nip home and catch the last fifty minutes of Sharon’s exposure, or was it Bridget tonight? It was a tempting thought, particularly as the wind-chill factor must be in minus figures and his knee was playing up. Then, to his fury, he heard the ‘Greensleeves’ ringtone emerging from his pocket.

Snatching the phone from his anorak impatiently, recognising the number and rueing his own efficiency in remembering the damn thing, he demanded, bad-temperedly, ‘What d’ you want, Adam?’

‘Whereabouts are you at the moment?’ What a nerve! To be checked up on by a runty little IT creep. A man who would not have been allowed within spitting distance of his boardroom.

‘Never you mind, Adam. I’m out doing the patrol, aren’t I? Is there anything else you want? It’s brass monkeys out here, so please don’t waste my time with stupid questions.’

‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ the voice sounded gratifyingly apologetic, respectful even, ‘it’s just that I’ve had a report. Todd’s been out in the Merc and he’s pretty sure that one of them set up stall at General George’s. Are you anywhere near there now?’

Red in the face and about to explode and release frothing expletives, Bill Keane suddenly had a bright idea, one designed to maximise his brownie points within the group and allow him to ogle Sharon, Bridget or whoever, too. He looked at his watch. Half an hour to go before the disrobing at eight or thereabouts.

‘Well,’ he began, ‘unfortunately, I’m on Fox Place at the mo – right at the far end away from Ma’s – but I’ll turn around right away. Don’t worry, I’ll see the baggage off PDQ. Over and out, Adam.’

So saying, he dropped the mobile back into his anorak pocket and continued, whistling merrily now, along Seafield Place, Ma Aitken’s pub already in sight. No need any longer to check out the West End. The group believed it had been done, and quite enough of their quarry located for the evening. Glamour Night might just be back on the menu.

As he bowled briskly round the warehouse corner, his mind on shutter speeds and apertures, he noticed two figures lurking together in the shadows, the man’s bulky form almost obscuring the woman’s markedly slighter one. Maybe he could tiptoe up to them, give the dirty bugger the fright of his life by tapping him on the shoulder and barking, ‘OK son… you’re under arrest!’ or some other such nonsense. Mind you, the chap was built like a tank, and, on closer inspection, perhaps they had not yet begun to fornicate. Also, the fact that he was not a well man should not be forgotten. In the circumstances, discretion might be the better part of valour. The desired result could be achieved simply by, say, the loud clapping of hands or some other sudden noise.

While he was standing still, contemplating the best strategy, a shrill scream pierced the silence, terrifying him and making his heart pound in his chest. But when he realised where the sound was coming from, he found himself instinctively running towards its source. The small woman. At the sound of his footsteps clattering on the tarmac, the stranger whirled round to face him and ran straight at him, colliding deliberately and shouldering him to the ground. Stamping on his hand for good measure, he hared off in the direction of Leith.

From his new vantage-point on the tarmac Bill Keane looked up at the stars, breathless, shocked by the violence he had felt, still bewildered by the speed of events. Groaning slightly, he rolled onto his side, trying to rise. But as he put his weight on his right knee it gave way below him and he thudded down again, cracking his elbow against his ribs and yelping in pain like a startled puppy.

His high-pitched cry penetrated the woman’s numb brain, rousing her from her stupor. With the return of full consciousness came an overpowering sense of dread. She had opened her eyes and seen moonlight reflected on the blade of the punter’s knife, seconds before its point had been pressed hard into her ribcage. She looked round the desolate scene, her eyes finally resting on the injured man, still collapsed and moaning gently to himself.

Immediately she stepped towards him. Dropping onto her knees beside him, she put an arm under each of his armpits and began to try to haul him up. He did not protest and she continued pulling until he lay with his back propped up against her, both of them gasping with the effort, neither sure what to do next. As they waited together for her to gain a second wind, hailstones appeared from nowhere, striking their faces and bouncing off the ground. Nature herself seemed unmoved by them, showed no pity at their plight.

‘Best get help, dear,’ Bill Keane said. ‘I don’t think we’ll manage…’

‘Aha. Nae dosh in ma phone, but I’ll gae tae Ma Aitken’s, eh? I’ll get us an ambulance frae there. You be a’right?’

‘Fine… maybe sense to get the police, too?’

‘Aye.’

She eased herself away from him, and then lowered his head gently back onto the ground. Shivering, she removed her thin jacket, intending to make a pillow for him from it, but ashamed of its squalid state she turned it inside-out before rolling it up, raising the old man’s head and carefully placing it underneath.

At half past eight the next morning, Alice pushed open the door of the Ladies and was momentarily disconcerted to find herself confronted by her old adversary, the cleaner, Mrs McClaren. The woman was polishing the mirror in large circular strokes, crooning ‘Little Bubbles’ tunelessly to her own reflection as she did so. Never mind, Alice thought, nothing to fear nowadays. She was no longer a man-free zone, an easy target.

‘Still got yer boyfriend, eh, dear?’

Alice nodded. Speech might result in her accidentally entering the joust again, and she was unwilling to risk that, even if she did now have some armour.

‘Ah says, still got yer boyfriend, eh?’ the cleaner repeated at increased volume, as if the policewoman might be deaf.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Safer to scotch that rumour, too.

‘How long hae ye managed tae keep this wan then?’ The cheek of it.

‘I’m not sure exactly. We’ve been together about nine months, something like that.’

‘Ye’ll need tae get a move on, mind, hen.’

‘Sorry? I’m not with you.’

‘Kiddies. Or ye’ll miss the bus, man or nae man,’ she laughed croakily, ‘otherwise ye’ll need one of thae… eh… donor kebabs.’

Determined to avoid any further chat, Alice nodded again, squeezing past the woman and her trolley contraption to get to the nearest cubicle.

‘An’ ah had five by the time ah wis thirty!’ Complacent cow.

‘If ye lose yer man, right, dinnae touch that Oakley boy, mind, eh?’

Alice’s curiosity was momentarily aroused and she waited, the door still ajar.

‘Why not?’

‘Cause he’s crackers, ken. Want to watch yersel’ wi’ him, even if yer desperate. I’d no’ trust him further than I could throw him. Telt me I’d lost ma job, a new company hud got the contract. I nearly got the sack fer no’ turning up the next day, thanks to him. Laughed hisself silly when I gave him a piece o’ my mind, but he’ll no’ dae that again.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I spat on his hob-nobs, an’ I’ll tell him once he’s scoffed the lot.’

A cautionary tale, Alice decided, finally finding sanctuary in the cubicle. Mrs McClaren should not be crossed.

With the cleaner now clanging about outside, careless of her presence and pressing need, Alice sat down, praying for her speedy exit. Eventually, Mrs McClaren departed in her own good time, ‘Little Bubbles’ still tripping from her lips. Alone at last, Alice looked at her appointment letter, an anodyne missive simply requesting her presence at the Infirmary for a blood check. No more than a formality, of course.

The lady at the main reception desk in Little France was deep in conversation with her neighbour, something about her son’s infatuation with a female parasite and him blowing all his college money on pieces of hair, hair extensions if you please, for her. And for his birthday all the girl had managed had been a bottle of cheap aftershave and a packet of Maltesers. Unwilling to interrupt, but conscious that she might appear to be eavesdropping as she was, Alice managed to catch the speaker’s eye and was directed wordlessly to a seating area in close proximity to the chattering staff. Before she had reached the middle pages of a vintage Heat magazine, a female doctor called her name and she traipsed after her through a labyrinth of corridors to a small, unassuming office.

As her flesh was being swabbed she felt the need to talk, conscious of the incongruity of being manhandled by a complete stranger in silence, so she said, ‘I was much relieved that the victim proved clean – so this should be just a formality, eh?’

‘Assuming the needle belonged to the victim, aye.’

Seven words, stating the obvious, but until they had been said it had not seemed so to her. Of course, the woman had been a junkie, and needles were often shared.

‘I could have caught something from someone else’s blood on the needle?’

Now concentrating on the task of siphoning blood from her arm, the medic said, ‘Aye, but it’s unlikely. She’d been dead for days, after all, and she’ll have got the thing before she died. The virus itself dies quite quickly. It’s a tiny risk, but we can’t take that chance, eh?’

No. We certainly can’t, Alice thought, praying that Isobel Wilson used the needle exchange, and telling herself that worrying would alter nothing, other than to add a few more grey hairs to her scalp. Oh, but ignorance had been bliss.

As she passed the cafeteria the scent of coffee tickled her nose and she followed it, having had no breakfast and determined to remedy the omission before returning to the hurly-burly of St Leonard’s. She took a seat by the window looking out onto a sky so dark it seemed undecided whether or not morning had broken. Earlier it had not seemed so bleak, but gathering above the new horizon were lead-coloured snow clouds, filled with the promise of blizzards to come.

‘Alice!’

She glanced up, surprised to see Professor McConnachie slipping his large frame into the seat opposite her, clear-eyed and without a trace of the mortuary pallor for which he was renowned.

‘Didn’t expect to see you here!’ he continued, beaming widely with all his gap-toothed charm and putting his tray onto her table.

‘No, I’m just here for a test… a blood test.’

‘Of course,’ he replied brightly. ‘In connection with that needle-stick injury, I suppose?’

She did not want to talk to him about it, she was still trying to reconcile herself to the news she had received and its implications. Best, she decided, to try to shift the conversation onto him and his recent spell as an inpatient.

‘How are you, Prof? Jock told me you lost a lot of blood. Have you been discharged now?’

‘Mmm,’ he replied, sipping his coffee and immediately spilling some of it into his saucer. As he poured the slops back into his cup he continued. ‘I’ve been for a check-up today, restored with the blood of others. They pumped five pints into me, I gather. I wonder who is circulating in me now?’

‘Sorry?’ Her mind was still somewhere else.

‘Blood donors, Alice. Are you one? You know, tinker, tailor, soldier, spy, policewoman… all or any of them could be circulating in me now.’ Having re-filled his cup, he took a noisy slurp and then spoke again. ‘Mind you, just as well it wasn’t an organ I suppose,’ his voice tailing off in thought.

‘Why?’

‘Something I read not so long ago. Apparently, if you have a bone marrow transplant, and your own marrow is irradiated, then your blood will contain cells bearing the donor’s DNA indefinitely. Maybe kidney transplants have the same effect, for all I know.’

She nodded her head, trying to concentrate on what he had said and succeeding until her phone rang. Its strident tone made her jump.

‘Alice, where the hell are you?’ It was Elaine Bell, direct as ever and with real urgency in her voice.

‘Er… fairly close by. Little France, so I could be back in the station by, say -’

‘Set off right now. Something’s happened, and either we’ve got the wrong man inside or a copycat’s been spawned and is on the rampage in Leith. I need you now. We’re short-handed, Tom’s on a course and Simon’s been laid low by a stomach bug. I want you here to help Eric with Lena Stirling, to talk to some of the Leith residents again – that Keane man for a start. By the way, did you have any joy with Guy Bayley?’

‘Not much. He only seems to have seen the Russian prostitute we’ve spoken to already, no punters.’

‘He was at the bloody locus on both nights, he must have seen something. You’ll need to chase him up, too