The Hanging Shed

FOUR

A different guard escorted me through the warren. Our feet rang out on the tiled floor as we headed towards the cells. We came to an open space with a line of seats jammed against a counter. Above the counter, and coming down to rest on it, was a six-foot-high metal grille. I could see other chairs facing these on the other side. I was motioned to a seat. There was no other visitor. I sat and lit a cigarette, taking deep drags to calm me down. Beyond, on the other side, a door swung open about twenty yards away. A guard stepped forward, looked around and then motioned to someone behind him. A shackled figure shambled forward, head bent to the floor. He wore grey overalls and chains round his wrists and feet. Another guard followed him out. They pointed to me and waited for the prisoner to lift his head and step forward.

I didn’t recognise the creature who stood, uncertain, by the door. His head was still bent but there was no shock of black hair. The scalp was bald with livid patches. This wasn’t Hugh Donovan. There’d been a mistake.

Finally the figure shuffled towards me. He stood for a moment facing me through the grille. I stood up, my legs shaking. He twisted into the seat opposite mine and sat bent over his knees, his forearms resting on his thighs and his hands clasped together. Keeping his head bent, he began rocking backward and forward. He might have been praying. He needed to, if this was Donovan, and he’d done what they said did. But it wasn’t Hugh’s head.

I gazed at his tortured skull. Red and white, marbled and distorted as though the skin had run. Which of course was what had happened. I had seen it before on some Spitfire pilots, young men, handsome young men, whose faces had melted in the flames of their cockpit. When the plastic cover caught light, there was no putting it out, and little chance of wrestling it open without serious burns if your plane was spiralling towards the ground. I suppose the same applied to a tail gunner if your Lancaster had taken hits from phosphorus shells. I sat down and placed my forearms on the bench that ran under the grille through to his side.

‘Hello?’ I tried.

‘Hello, Dougie.’ He still didn’t look up, and the voice was slow and dull. But this was Hugh. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Hugh, look at me.’

For a moment he did nothing. Then he slowly lifted his head. I’d been steeling myself but it wasn’t enough. I stopped breathing. It was a clown’s face, badly made up. Hairless, seamed and ridged like a child’s bad attempt at a patchwork doll. One ear, the right, was missing completely. The nose was vestigial. Then he smiled. It was the worse thing. A twisted, lopsided desecration of that beautiful grin. At least he had his sight; those bright blue eyes of his seemed to mock me from behind a mask that he would take off any minute now. He’d giggle, and then we’d both laugh at the great wheeze. But this was no faux-face from our boyhood guising at Hallowe’en. I couldn’t help myself. The tears sprung.

‘Oh Christ, Shug. You’ve been through it, old pal.’

I reached out instinctively with both hands and clamped them through the grille. He looked at them, smiled that perverted smile again, and put out his own withered limbs. He touched my fingers and then pulled away. I saw the guard on his side step forward and shake his head at me. I pulled back.

‘You wanted to know why I never got in touch…’ He sounded as though he was speaking from beneath the sea.

‘Hell, Shug, none of us are as braw as we were.’

‘I’ll swap you ony time, Dougie,’ he said softly.

We held each other’s eyes for a minute longer till we both got embarrassed.

‘Tell me, Hugh.’

He looked up again. His blue eyes beseeched. ‘I never killed those weans, Douglas. And certainly no’ that wee boy, Rory. As God’s my judge, I never killed him. How could I kill Fiona’s boy?’ I saw his eyes mist and wondered if this was another of his big lies. Perhaps the biggest.

Hugh and I had grown up playing together even though he went to the chapel and I went to the kirk. He lived in the next close. He’d call me a Proddy sod and I’d call him a Papish pig. And we’d punch each other on the shoulder to see who could stand the pain the longest. Our friendship survived Orange marches through Kilmarnock when the drums and flutes and orange sashes would clear the streets of left-footers like Hugh. It survived us going to separate schools where the religious differences were drummed in deep. We got looks down the main street, him in his black blazer and me in maroon.

It survived some of the battles we had at the local dance hall – the Air Training Corps hut – the Attic – Protestants squaring off against Catholics instead of enjoying the girls and the dancing. Hugh left school at fourteen like most of my pals, and followed in his dad’s footsteps into an apprenticeship in the cooperage at Johnnie Walker’s. I stayed on at the Academy thanks to a Coop bursary aiming for my Highers. It wasn’t my choice. My father, through his coughing, vowed I’d not follow him down the pits.

Hugh and I stayed in touch. He brought his girlfriend, Maureen, to the Attic one night. They’d been to St Joseph’s School together. And Maureen brought her sister, Fiona. Fiona, with heavy black hair flowing halfway down her back. With the upright head and slim musculature of a dancer. With dark lashes sheltering Celtic-black eyes.

The way she looked at me that first night was all challenge and light, as though she was waiting for me to say something stupid. I don’t know what I said. It couldn’t have been too daft. We danced like dervishes then and every Saturday after. Her hair swirling and tossing like the mane of a black stallion. It was unusual then and maybe still. Catholics winching Protestants. Something you hoped the war would have blown away for ever. We’d see. The Montagues and Capulets had it easy. We became an item in that reckless summer. We were both fifteen and I was harpooned by the love of my life.

The four of us remained inseparable through the following year, me at school, the other three out earning their living. My pockets were usually empty except for the coppers earned on my paper round. Fiona was a mill girl like her mother and sister before her. I got catcalls from her pals if I picked her up after work, me in my school blazer and she in her pinny, shaking her hair loose from her headscarf. The gentlest jibe was professor. It didn’t seem to matter. We were in love and even the entreaties of her priest and parents to give up this scandalous affair, went unheeded on into the spring of ’29.

Until I learned of a different arrangement. I heard it first from Maureen, her face burning with bitterness. Hugh and Fiona had been meeting secretly for months. Suddenly all the little evasions made sense; her too tired to meet after work rebuffs, the going out with her pals excuses, the perpetual washing of her black mane. I caught them together walking hand in hand in the Kay Park, their mouths feasting on each other. I stepped in their path. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do: punch him; slap her; kill them both. In the event they froze and looked at me with such pity that I turned and walked away. Hugh called after me: how sorry he was and how they hadn’t meant it to happen. I should have hit him.

Seventeen years ago. And you know what? It had hurt for seventeen years. It still hurt. What does a seventeen year old know of love? Everything and nothing. Nothing about the longueurs of married life. Nothing about the dips and doubts, the chains and ties. Everything about the spark and fire of a kiss. The agonies of does she, doesn’t she? The racing blood, the utter certainty, the high passion. Why should a teenage love count less? It’s unconstrained, insane. It lacks adult defences and cynicism. First love is engraved on a developing heart. Like carving the letters on a tree and years later finding them swollen and proud on a mature trunk. Knowing they would last the lifetime of the tree. Longer than your own.

There had been girls since. Kind women, bright women, teasing women, women who wanted a life with me. I was too busy, too fussy. Fiona cast a long shadow.

I looked at the wrecked face in front of me. Beyond punching now. I hadn’t spoken to him or her since that day, just heard of their continued passion through others. Until she married someone else. Why? And why not me? Not even third best? And bore her husband – the jammy sod – a son. Why not mine, Fiona?

Did that have any bearing on the murder of her wee boy? The Hugh I knew didn’t have it in him, not for Fiona’s child, for pity’s sake. Surely? But I’d seen the hardest of men turn into gibbering wrecks after two days of bombardment in a desert foxhole. Hell, I still jolt awake wrapped in sweat-soaked sheets, with Panzer tanks rolling over me. How would being burnt alive affect you?

I’d phoned an old contact in the Glasgow police. He told me that five boys had gone missing over the past year, three in the East End, two in the Gorbals. Only the last one had been found. Fiona’s son Rory had been discovered in a coal cellar at the back of some tenements. He was naked and dead. He’d been raped, God help him. The following morning Hugh Donovan had been arrested in his single-end in the Gorbals. There was hard evidence all over the house that Hugh had killed the boy, including the boy’s clothing. And here was Donovan telling me he didn’t do it. Despite what he’d done to me, I wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that no one I knew was capable of such horror. But the facts said otherwise. And there was motivation: sick revenge on a faithless lover and her dead husband.

‘Tell me everything, Hugh. How did the boy’s clothes get into your flat?’ I took out my reporter’s notebook and a pencil, to encourage him to talk. It usually works.

He was shaking his head, holding his face in his hands. ‘It’s going to sound stupid.’ His eyes looked hunted. He flung up his hands. ‘I don’t know, Dougie! I just don’t know! I don’t know how they got there, and that’s the truth!’

‘What do you remember? I mean what was the last thing you recall before…’

‘Before they found me there? And took me away? Took me here?’

I nodded.

‘Look, I’d better tell you a wee bit about the last few months. How I ran into Fiona again.’

This is what he told me. These are the notes I took, good ex-copper and budding crime reporter that I was.