The Dead Hour

I

They were parked in the darkness outside the Royal Hospital. Apart from a couple of consultants’ discreetly posh cars the car park was empty. Yellow lights blazed in most of the windows of the huge soot-blackened Victorian hospital, and a brittle silver frost hung in the air. Inside the warm car it was snuggle-up bedtime dark. Paddy’s heart rate had slowed so much that she was having trouble remembering why it would be wrong to sleep.

Billy cracked the window and lit his cigarette but Paddy stayed in the backseat. Sundays were always quiet, but the Royal’s emergency room was a good place to pick up stories that missed the police’s attention. Gangsters often traveled across the city if they were stabbed or slashed, sometimes coming as far as ten miles in a taxi, clutching tea towels to their wounds, because the Royal surgeons were reputedly the best in the city.

For the first time Paddy wished peace on the city. She wanted a quick return to the twilight office, to get away from Billy, licking her wounds until home time.

Billy watched her in the mirror. “Ye not going in?”

“Yeah.” She looked across the car park to the hospital door. A man in a thin brown shirt stood outside the door, smoking and hugging himself against the cold air. He had a large white bandage over one ear. Paddy didn’t stir. “Can I have a cigarette, Billy?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Just to gee me along a bit.”

He gave her a disapproving look but reached across his shoulder and handed her one. She lit it and took a deep breath, filling her lungs until her fingers tingled. She felt better, a little elated, and took another little drag for good luck before giving the cigarette back to him.

“Nip that for me, will ye? I’ll not be long.”

“Did it wake ye?”

She opened the door and stepped out into the car park. “Wee bit, aye.”

She stepped carefully across the slippery frosted asphalt and passed the man with the sore ear at the main entrance. Down a drafty beige corridor, she passed through automatic double doors and into the searing white light of the emergency department’s waiting room.

A motley crowd of people were scattered around the seats inside. Some looked miserable and worn, some excited and bright. From a cursory look Paddy couldn’t tell who was sick and who was a chaperone. The woman behind the Plexiglas was a pretty brunette with a Western Isles accent and a taste for gory stories.

“Hi, Marcelli, anything big tonight?”

Marcelli shook her head. “Nothing very much at all, I’m afraid.”

“No gangster action tonight? No stabbings or swordplay or anything?”

“Nope. Sorry. The German’s left.”

Paddy smiled. “The German doing the thesis?”

“Aye. I’m in mourning.” If the German doctor didn’t know that Marcelli fancied him he was either blind or gay or both, Paddy thought. He had been writing a thesis about the sword injuries he witnessed during his time at the Royal, arguing that the blunt heavy swords created injuries that would match those from a medieval battleground.

“How’s work? Keeping busy?”

“Aye, busy enough.”

Marcelli looked at the wipe-clean board behind her head. The morning shift cleaning women washed the board with soapy water so the buildup of blue smudges generally expressed how busy the department had been. The board was almost pristine tonight.

“It’s all colds and falls tonight, I’m afraid.”

The two women smiled at each other politely, inquired after one another’s families. Marcelli’s husband worked the oil rigs and spent two weeks offshore and two weeks on. She had the content, rested look she always had when he was away. Paddy guessed that they fought a lot when he was home.

She patted the counter and told Marcelli she’d see her tomorrow.

“I’ll see if I can rustle up a gang brawl for ye.”

“Cheers, Marcelli.”

She walked out of the department, through the lobby, and out to the cusp of the dark, dark night.

The sore-eared man was smoking a fresh cigarette at the doorway. Hunched against the cold, he caught her eye and smiled, a little hopefully, mistaking her frank stare for a come-on instead of rudeness born of exhaustion. Paddy glanced away, toward the calls car, and saw the red winking eye of Billy’s cigarette rise in the driver’s window. On the far side of the car a black shadow darted toward the road.

A scorching ball of orange light seared the delicate membrane of her eyes before she had time to blink. Paddy fell backward, tripping on a step, a hand over her eyes as she heard the back of her head crack on the stone step. Lafferty might be coming for her across the car park, he could have the hammer in his hand, the one he used to batter Vhari to death, but Paddy still couldn’t make her eyes open or get up to run away. Blind as a newborn puppy, she curled into a ball and waited for him. She heard the fire in the calls car whoosh and crackle, felt the wet of the frost on the step biting her cheek.

Someone was running toward her, urgent footsteps slapping on linoleum, and a sudden wordless cry. The feet were coming from inside the hospital, and were joined by others, a lot of people, flooding into the car park. Nurses and ambulance crews were running past her to the car. Billy was in the car.

Paddy sat up, holding the wall as she pulled herself onto her feet and stood up on unsteady legs. She could still feel the heat from the fire on her face as she forced her eyes open. Every window in the car was cracked and broken, angry orange flames lapping the roof. The driver’s door lay open and Billy was on the ground, his body obscured by a gathering of medics. Protruding between two sets of legs lay a charred arm, the fingers skinned red, curled into a tight claw.

A shoulder bumped hers and startled her into spinning around. It was the sore-eared man standing inside the door, flattened against one of the cold marble pillars, the bandage on his ear hanging crazily at the side of his head, hinged by white tape.

She grabbed his arm and shook him. “Did you see him? Did you see who it was?”

He shook his head at her, pointing at her lips, asking her to slow down because he couldn’t hear. She pointed out to the blackness and commotion and the burning car, being tackled by porters throwing buckets of sand over it.

“A guy ran out,” he said. “In the shadows, couldn’t see his face. Dressed in dark clothes. Crept up to the car. I didn’t shout, I thought he was playing a joke on his pal in the car. I looked at you and then back. Creeping up to the window. Arm up, threw something in the window. Next thing-” He made the sound of an explosion and staggered back.

“Was he a big guy? Was his head shaved?”

He shrugged. “He looked like a big, bald bastard.”

II

Paddy sat in the canteen at the top of the Daily News building, watching morning break over the dirty city, blankly eating her way through another chocolate bar. Sugar for shock, that’s what her mum said. That’s why they always made each other sweet tea in films about the war. Sugar for shock.

Her head was thrumming, her eyes kept drying out so much she had to sit with them shut for minutes at a time. She thought she might have a lot of soot in there.

She took another bite. All she could think or care about was Billy. The attacker had mistaken Billy for her, which meant he didn’t know what she looked like. Billy’s wife would be at the hospital now. His wife that he fought with all the time and the son he didn’t like anymore, standing next to him, claiming him.

They were alone in the big canteen; Scary Mary and her helpers wouldn’t be in for another hour and the room was cold and quiet.

“I’m telling you again: it was Bobby Lafferty.”

The three policemen sat in a rough circle around the canteen table, nodding disbelievingly. They had been listening to her patiently for an hour and a bit, she couldn’t be sure how long. Their tea was cold, anyway. They all looked the same to her, a big, square, disbelieving face. She knew perfectly well why they were staying with her, pretending to listen to answers she’d already given them.

“So,” said one, “let’s go through this again: why would a heavy like Bobby Lafferty want to kill you?”

“I’ve told you that already.”

He grunted and looked out of the window. “Lafferty didn’t kill the Bearsden Bird. The guy who did that killed himself. We pulled him out of the river last week. So why would Lafferty come after you?”

“I told you, ask Sullivan.”

“And we told you that we called Sullivan. He doesn’t know what you’re on about either.”

Paddy took another disconsolate bite of chocolate. She couldn’t be bothered chewing. The clump of thick chocolate melted in her mouth, coating her tongue until she moved it and generated some saliva.

Sullivan wasn’t on her side at all. She had begun to doubt him as they stood in the dark room and watched Lafferty being questioned. It wouldn’t take a genius-level IQ for Lafferty to work out that she was the only witness to what had gone on in the Bearsden house, and the note was the only thing he and the good-looking man hadn’t wiped before they left it. Lafferty had been released shortly after she left Partick Marine. Sullivan hadn’t even contacted her to let her know and now he wouldn’t back her up and admit that Lafferty was a danger. She couldn’t go home. If Lafferty had found her at the hospital, he’d find her home address and follow her there.

“What about the ear guy in the hospital car park? He saw someone who fitted the description.”

The officer sighed patiently. “We’ve told you already that we can’t find him.”

She sat up and looked at them. “He was treated in the emergency room for a sore ear. Marcelli always takes a name and address. He waited to talk to the police afterward. He saw the guy who did it and you’re telling me you can’t find him?”

The three officers each evaded her eye in turn.

Paddy felt as if she had been awake since the Middle Ages. “What would you do if you were me?”

No one said anything.

“How long is it until your shift finishes, then? Another twenty minutes?”

They glanced guiltily at each other and one of them smiled.

“So, if you sit here pretending to listen to me for another ten minutes, by the time you get back to the station it’ll be time to clock off?”

The man nearest bristled at the accusation. “Don’t get smart with us, Miss Meehan.”

“Look, Lafferty threw a pint of petrol in on Billy, and I can’t go home until you pick him up. I’m giving you his name. I can get his address if you like-if it would help. Am I not entitled to protection from the police? What if he hurts my family?”

The indignant one blinked slowly. “You’re a crime journalist, Miss Meehan, you’re bound to piss a lot of people off. Bad people.”

“So, it’s just a free-for-all? Does that make me a legitimate target, then? What about Billy? What did he do wrong?”

They were tired too, and so close to the end of their shift it was hardly worth their while engaging with a stroppy bird. One officer sat back, pushing himself away from the table and swinging on two legs of his chair. “I think you know a mate of mine. I heard you’re close friends.” He snickered at the ground.

He was talking about Burns, hinting at the rumors. A hot flush crept up the back of Paddy’s neck but she stared at him defiantly. The police were a tight community. They drank in the same pubs, supported the same football team. They gossiped incessantly about each other, knew who was shagging who, who drank too much, who the idealists were, and who was corruptible or corrupt.

One of the officers stole a look at his watch.

“Apart from Gourlay and McGregor, I’m the only person who saw the good-looking guy at the Bearsden Bird’s door that night,” she said. “They’re saying it was the river suicide, Mark Thillingly, who killed her and I say it definitely wasn’t him. Doesn’t that make you wonder?”

They glanced at each other, hesitant, knowing, she felt sure, that Gourlay and McGregor were men of questionable ethics. The knowing looks dissolved into apathy. Ten minutes and they could go home. They just didn’t give a shit.

Paddy felt her eyes brim with big, stupid tears. “If Lafferty kills me it’ll be on your heads.”

The canteen doors opened and the skinny copyboy peered in. “Meehan? Ramage wants to see you when you’ve finished here.” He looked at the unhappy group around the table and slid back out to the corridor, shutting the door noiselessly after him.

Paddy looked at the bored policemen and felt a burst of righteous fury. “Is this what you joined the police for? To protect each other? What if Gourlay and McGregor are bent?”

She’d gone too far. One officer hissed a warning at her.

Paddy stood up suddenly on unsteady legs. “If that animal hurts my mum I’ll come and find the three of yees.”

She shouldn’t have voiced the fear out loud. She started to cry, her face convulsing as she edged out from behind the table.

As she pulled the door open she heard one officer mutter under his breath, “That’s our home time, guys.”

III

Ramage’s gruff voice called out, “Come!” Paddy brushed her mouth and chin for chocolate debris, stood as tall as her failing backbone would let her, and opened the door.

Dwarfed behind the enormous desk, Ramage had an early-morning shave that made him look young and vulnerable, a small boy in a starched shirt and tie. He was sitting back in his chair, three neat piles of papers sitting side by side, perfectly aligned on his desk. Farquarson would have looked crumpled already, the papers would have been scattered around a tabletop, and he’d have been hunched over them, working.

“Meehan,” Ramage said baldly. “I want three hundred about the firebomb, this time do it in first person and make it punchy. Get Frankie Mills to take a photo of you looking like shit and then fuck off home for a rest until I call you.”

She shook her head. “No. No picture of me. The guy who did this is after me, but so far he’s only got my name. I don’t want him to have a photo of me as well.”

“You think he bombed Billy thinking he was you?”

“Billy looks like a woman from the back,” she explained. “He’s got a curly perm. The guy crept up from behind and threw the bomb at the window. He might even think he got me. When he hears from the police that it was someone else he’ll come to my house.”

Ramage smiled and widened his eyes at the mention of the police. “You think the police are giving him information?”

“They’re the only people who know I’m not saying the same thing as the coppers on the call.”

Ramage nodded at his desk. “So,” he said to himself, “a young lady on the brink of a big story.” He licked his thumb and reached forward, moving a sheet of paper from the middle stack to the next one. He stopped to tidy the edges of the pile. She could almost see the captions on each one: layoff, potential layoff, keep. She hoped she was being moved to keep.

“Okay, then. Three hundred words and then fuck off home.”

“Look, I can’t go back to my house. The police haven’t caught the guy and as far as I know he already knows where I live. I keep catching the same car watching my house. I need a hotel room.”

Ramage smirked at her audacity, put the pen down, and sat up straight to look at her. “Good for you, Patricia.”

“My name’s Paddy,” she corrected curtly.

He tensed his brow at her. “Yeah, don’t act the uppity twat with me.” Staring at her, he licked his thumb again and moved the sheet back to the original pile.

“Boss,” she said, though it nearly choked her, “I’m going to get you a great story. Sell shitloads of papers. Shitloads.”

His smile was reptilian. “We’ll see. I’ll shell out for a bed and breakfast, and that’s only for three days-”

“No, it has to be a hotel. Bed and breakfasts make you leave during the day and I need to sleep.”

He didn’t like being interrupted. He raised his hand and licked the thumb again but stopped and smiled, dropping his hand without moving a sheet. “Three hundred words, and make it good. You’ll need a driver. Know anyone?”

She remembered Sean. She didn’t know if he’d passed his test but the image of his face soothed her. “I do, but he hasn’t got his own car.”

Ramage shrugged. “Get one out of the pool. Tell them to get a new radio and fit it.” He looked her up and down. “You’re young, Meehan. Was Farquarson the first editor you’ve worked under?”

She nodded dumbly.

“You probably miss him and think I’m a dick.”

She wanted to nod but guessed that it wouldn’t be well received. “Dunno.”

Ramage’s smile was almost genuine this time. He lifted a gold fountain pen and tapped the soft green leather blotter in front of him in a slow, rhythmic thud. They should have been up on editorial, in a noisy room surrounded by bustle where the dull thunk of a stupid ostentatious gold pen would be lost.

He shifted in his seat. “As you go on in this business you’ll learn that loyalty to dead men is a waste of time. Grieve, get over it, and then move on to arse-licking the next man in charge. That’s the business we’re in.” He smiled faintly, as if his brutal creed was a source of pride. “You can come with me or you can give me that uppity cow crap and end up selling advertising space. Understand?”

Paddy nodded and Ramage dismissed her with a flick of his hand.

Paddy backed out of the room and shut the door quietly. The windows along the corridor let the weak light of the day into the corridor. She slowed to a stop, leaning on the windowsill and looking out over the roofs of the Scottish Daily News vans parked outside. In the future the printworks wouldn’t be under the paper. They’d move to the new site and the building would be nothing more than an office. They could be selling insurance.

She looked out over the gray day and knew Billy’s family would be in the hospital, waiting for her to turn up and commiserate on behalf of the Daily News. She should go and phone Sean and tell him he had a good-paying job if he wanted it. She had three hundred words to write and just six hours before she was expected at the inquiry into the police call to Burnett’s house, but still she lingered in the lemon-scented corridor, looking out of the window at the windy street, feeling one era slip into the past and another begin.

IV

Bernie knew it was Kate at the door. The whisper of a knock at ten in the morning, the tentative pause between the raps-he didn’t know anyone else who would do that. He stood behind the door, sensing her on the other side, wanting to open it to her but never wanting to see her again.

“Bernie?” Her voice was as familiar as his own and he could read volumes into the timbre. She was frightened and worried that he might be angry with her. She was ill too, didn’t sound strong. Her normal voice was breathy but there was no air behind the voice. “Bernie? Let me in?”

He imagined what she’d say to him if he did open the door: there were bits of engines and old newspapers stacked all over the floor of the pokey wee hall. He had pale blue striped pajama trousers and an undershirt on, hardly appropriate for receiving such a grand guest. But Kate had deigned to come to his council house, she’d never been before, she might not be just as snooty as she usually was.

“Darling? I’m cold.”

Bernie didn’t even make a decision to open the door. The reflex to save Kate from any and all discomfort was so ingrained that he leaned forward and pulled the heavy toolbox away from the bottom of the door while he snapped the lock and pulled it open.

He gasped when he saw her. As soon as the breath left him and his hand was across his mouth he knew he had broken her heart.

“You’re so thin,” he said, lying to spare her.

She knew why he had gasped. He could see by the way she hung her head and looked at his feet. Her hand rose to her face, covering her nose. It had collapsed. The tip drooped over her top lip like the nose of a witch in a children’s book.

The last time they met, at the old man’s funeral, she’d looked just as stunning as ever. She’d had the sort of looks that caught the eye and kept it, that made a man feel that his hands were designed to fit around her perfect face, cinch her tiny waist. She knew what she looked like then, had the sense of absolute entitlement that truly beautiful girls have. And she knew what she looked like now.

“When did you last eat?”

She raised her eyes and looked so defenseless she could have been twelve again. “I’m cold, Bernie.”

She had barely spoken to him for years, had been the cause of Vhari’s murder, had stolen a car from him and planted a parcel in his garage that could have had him killed, but Bernie reached out and took her hand, pulled her into his modest flat, and shut the door to the world behind her.

V

The floor was incredibly dirty. Paddy had been asleep in Farquarson’s darkened office for three hours, lying on the dusty floor, starting awake every twenty minutes or so at noises from the newsroom.

She lay awake now, knowing she should get up and phone her mum again, just to check. Her hot eyes looked along the length of filthy carpet, past the indents from the conference table, to the door. Through the half-opened venetian blinds she could see shadows moving past and the still, squat figures of the copyboys perched on their bench, waiting to be called for a chore. She should get up and phone her mum, ask if she’d seen a red Ford outside. She should apologize to JT for not getting his Mandela clippings out for him. She’d been expecting him to burst into the office all morning to give her a bollocking for not having done it already.

A perfunctory rap on the door was followed by the door opening, and a shard of bright light made her eyes smart.

“Ramage has booked you a hotel room.”

She sat up, blinking and brushing fibers and dust from her cheek, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. It was one of the copyboys.

“Is JT about?”

“Naw.”

“Is he out on a job?”

“Naw.”

He retreated back to the bench, leaving the door swinging open.

Pleased about the hotel room, Paddy brushed her clothes clean and stepped out into the busy room. The morning conference had apparently taken place in Ramage’s suite downstairs: editors and significant journalists were pouring back in through the double doors, some scowling, some buzzed up, depending on who had been lauded and who lampooned for the morning edition. She peered at them until the last few trickled back in and settled at their desks. JT wasn’t among them.

She sidled up to Reg at the sports desk. “Where’s JT?”

Reg shook his head. “Got the bump.”

She opened her eyes properly. “But he’s just won a Reporter of the Year.”

“Aye.” Reg nodded miserably at his typewriter. “Wages were too high, though. I heard you’ve got a hotel room.”

“Aye.” She looked at her feet, wondering if she’d been wise to ask for anything but a chance to prove herself.