The Low Road (18 page)

The dram came first, then the wash, then a conversation with his mother. This made him pour a second dram.

“Wee Gerry came round here looking for me?”

“Yesterday. He said his father told him to make peace with you, and to tell you it was no' your business so you'd best go back home to your fiancée.”

McAllister was so angry the whisky glass was shaking.
Coming to Mother's home? Mentioning Joanne?

“Son, I'm right sorry. I know Wee Gerry is a criminal but I . . . I'm sorry. I told him you'd maybe gone to Millport.” A single tear escaped.

Now McAllister was more than angry, he was scared. “Mother, I want you to pack a bag. You're coming home with me. We'll catch the early train tomorrow.”

His mother did not argue. That was when he knew she too was scared. “I have to go in to the
Herald
. I need to explain to Sandy what happened . . .”

“Give him ma best . . .”

“Don't answer the door to anyone.” He put his arm over her shoulder. “You'll love it in the Highlands, especially this time of year.” It was all he could think to say. To tell her she might become caught up in this feud was unnecessary; his mother had been born and had lived all her life in one of the roughest parts of the roughest of cities, and they were Catholics in a Protestant stronghold. She knew.

Sandy Marshall was on the newsroom floor, a news conference in progress. “The man himself,” he said as McAllister walked in. “You know about these?” He handed McAllister a contact sheet.

He stared. “Where on earth . . . ?”

“A holidaymaker walked in demanding money,” explained one of the sub-editors who knew McAllister from his previous time on the
Herald
. “Mary promised him payment for the roll of film.” He was squinting at the shots. “Canny use them, they're hopeless but . . .”

“But from these, you get the gist of the story,” McAllister finished.

“Backup for the copy Mary phoned in,” Sandy said.

“Really? Where is she?”

“She didn't say, but it was a reverse charge call from a phone box. So we need you to write up your version, but tell us what happened first.”

“Aye, we're all dying to know what great front-page scoop Mary Ballantyne has come up with this time.” The failure of a man—Mary's description of her rival crime reporter—could not disguise his bitterness.

“Haven't you a weather report to write?” Sandy asked him. “Or is it an obituary?”

“His own, hopefully,” the sub-editor muttered before looking at the clock. “McAllister, give us five hundred words. Mary's copy will lead; you can fill in the gaps. Then we'll repair to the Station Hotel for the juicy bits we canny publish. Then . . .”

“Then I'm off home before the wife files for a divorce,” said Sandy. “So let's put a humdinger of a front page together.”

When McAllister left the
Herald
building at around 10 p.m., the streets were quiet. It was late for citizens to be out, but not for those working in newspapers. The evening light had dimmed to an almost-dark by the time he reached the entrance to his mother's flat, and the lightbulb at the foot of the staircase to the upper flats was out again.

As he searched his pockets for the keys, he cursed. He was exhausted and fumbling for the keyhole. He ignored a faint noise
a few steps along the passage leading to the back green; rats were common here. He felt before he saw the movement behind, and instinct made him swing his right arm around backwards, his hand clutching the keys between his fingers. He struck something. Someone. Him being so tall, he struck a face. There was a clatter of metal dropping on the slate floor.

“Ma eyes,” a man bellowed. McAllister turned and in the streetlight saw the outline of a small man, scuttling backwards into the street, a hand on his forehead.

McAllister trod on whatever had fallen. He struck a match. As he was bending to pick it up—razor—a second man came at him. McAllister dropped the match. His eyes couldn't adjust quickly enough and a weapon, a short stick maybe, or a cosh, landed on his right shoulder. It hurt—badly—but no bones broke.

“You bastard,” McAllister yelled, his voice echoing up the close stairwell.

“Is that you, John?” His mother's voice came from behind the door.

“Stay inside!”

Again his attacker launched himself at McAllister, landing on his back, clinging to him, hands around his throat.

“Mr. McAllister? Is that you?” Another voice called out, this time from the second-floor landing. The neighbor looked down the stairwell. Although he couldn't make out what was happening, the neighbor retreated. And slammed his door.

The man dropped to the ground. A sharp blow landed on McAllister's left elbow. Pain shot up his left arm, leaving it useless. All he had, apart from his height and longer reach, was his keys, with the larger iron key protruding from his clenched fist.

When this assailant came close enough, McAllister's right fist shot out and connected with the man in the region of his neck. He fell forward against McAllister's arms. An explosion of breath
burst hot in McAllister's ear. He dropped the man to the ground, stepping back to protect himself and land a kick on the still body. But he was too slow. His attacker scuttled on all fours, reached the bottom of the stairs, and began to climb.

McAllister followed. He knew he was being stupid. He knew he should run for home. Bolt the door. Count himself lucky to have escaped, to live, to fight, or write about, another day.

The man was fast. One floor. Two, three. On the fourth-and-final-floor landing the man was waiting. Legs akimbo. Razor held out.

“Nae need for aa' this.” The voice sounded that of someone young, sure of himself, and, although breathing fast, he was not out of breath—unlike McAllister. He couldn't know how angry McAllister was, couldn't see the white-hot rage, the buildup of days of frustration, guilt, fury at being an onlooker, unable to help Jenny bring her son home, and bested by a girl. Mary.

McAllister tripped and had to scrabble up the last two steps. The figure looming above him, his hand gripping the railings, giving himself purchase to launch a kick. But too slow. McAllister saw the kick coming. He dodged to one side. The kick missed. Still on his hands and knees, he launched himself towards his attacker and caught an ankle.

“Let go, you fucker,” the man screamed. “Let go.” He was thrashing about and his free foot caught McAllister on a shoulder, narrowly missing his head.

“You've no idea who you're messing wi'.” The voice was lower, trying to squeeze menace, not fear, through his vocal cords. “Get off a' me.” He was writhing, kicking.

McAllister's hand slipped from the ankle, but he managed to grab the other leg by the trouser cuff. The man was leaning too far back. He was bent backwards from the waist, in danger of toppling over. His arms were flailing like a wind-up toy. All that
was between him and a four-floor drop onto slate flagstones was McAllister, holding him by a trouser leg.

And McAllister was tempted: if he suddenly let go the man would fall. He wanted to let go, but in that second, illuminated by the moon shining through the skylight above, he caught a glimpse of a face. A boy's face. But a man in these parts, where the streets and the gangs and the poverty made a man of a fifteen-year-old. He jerked at his assailant's legs, pulling him in and down. The man-boy swiveled around. Holding onto the railings, he doubled over and was sick, the vomit falling down the depths of the dark well, to the floor that might have been his death place had McAllister not seen the terrified boy rather than a hardened hard man.

Halfway down the stairs, the second-floor door opened again. The neighbor looked down. Then up. He took in the boy. He took in McAllister. He retreated. The sound of bolts being slammed shut echoed through the hallway.

“Go home to your ma,” McAllister told the heap of bones sitting sobbing on the landing.

He then walked down four flights, calling out to his mother, “It's me,” so as not to scare her, before letting himself in.

She was sitting in the kitchen, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked tiny.

“Fetch your bag,” was all he said. She scuttled off. More dormouse than rat.

He went to the sitting room, poured a substantial dram. Waited.

When she emerged, holding a small cardboard suitcase in one hand, her handbag in the other, he went out to check there was no one waiting to attack a second time. The close was empty but for the smell of vomit. The street too. He locked up, took her arm and the suitcase, and they walked down the hill to Duke Street.

There were no buses or trams, and few taxis cruised the East End of Glasgow, especially this late. They walked to the station. It took awhile; his mother had not walked much in recent years.

He knew the milk train would be leaving in a few hours. He phoned the night desk on the
Herald
from the station, spoke to a former colleague, who promised to pass on a message to the editor. His call was then transferred to a copy taker. He quickly dictated a short account of the attack.
Sandy can use it in the late edition
.
I want it known I'm alive and well and will be looking for revenge.

He and his mother sat in the waiting room, saying little, never once mentioning why they were there. She let him hold her hand.

“I wonder why they call it the milk train?” he said after an hour or so. “Why not the newspaper train? I mean, that's how the papers get distributed . . .”

“No' everybody's that interested in newspapers,” she said.

And he almost laughed. It was not meant with malice. It was only the way she saw it. Give her a wireless and the cool calm voice of the BBC newsreader and she was happy.

“Mind you,” she added a good ten minutes later, “they're handy for lighting the fire.”

This time he laughed. He wanted to hug her. But they didn't do hugs. “And good for keeping your fish supper warm.”

“Aye. That, too.”

Right up until the penultimate whistle and the answering blast from the engine, Mrs. McAllister kept sneaking looks around the station, in case criminals wielding open cutthroat razors were to come into the waiting room and attack them—even though it was the first-class waiting room, an unlikely place for gangsters, to her mind. But no one came.

Perth was the last major station before the climb up the foothills of the Grampians. There they would have a long wait
to change to the train for the Highlands. Better than hanging around in the city, McAllister thought, and although he hadn't asked, he knew his mother would agree.

Even though no one he knew boarded the train at Perth, he was remembering her antics on the train to Largs and kept up a distant hope that Mary would appear. He found himself looking out the window at the River Tay, half hoping she, or Jimmy, would materialize in the compartment and they would joke about their adventures before dozing all across the high plateau. But nothing happened. And no one appeared.

As the train climbed through the narrow gorges deep in bracken and birch and pine, towards Pitlochery, and after heather and boulders the size of small houses, and tumbles of rocks, and white streaks of falling water began to replace the woodland, he gave up hope.

Throughout the journey over the Grampians, through the empty moorland and stark bare rounded mounds of mountains, with many lochs, large and small, breaking up the boggy vista of the high plateau, two thoughts kept nagging at him. Were Mary and Jimmy safe? And how did Gerry Dochery know he had a fiancée?

T
he taxi driver dropped them off at the house with a cheery “Welcome to the Highlands, Mrs. McAllister.”

“Is he a friend o' yours, John?” she asked her son.

“It's a small town,” he explained. “Most people know me from the
Gazette
.” He picked up her suitcase and his bag, looking around, expecting something to have changed. He had had a tumultuous few days; here the lawn had grown a fraction of an inch.

He could see his mother examining the polish on the brass door knocker and on the red doorstep, in judgment of the woman of the house. He was glad Joanne had the excuse of being unwell—
not herself
. A polished doorstep had never been one of her priorities, the garden taking up most of her attention. Even that would not pass the scrutiny of most gardeners, as Joanne hated uniform rows of dahlias and chrysanthemum. She loved wildflowers, she loved flowers in amongst the vegetables, she loved flowers and shrubs that attracted birds and butterflies and bees and would never complain if most of the fruit vanished before she'd gathered the crop—much to her mother-in-law's chagrin. “There's no strawberries left for the jam,” Mrs. Ross would complain.

Joanne would laugh. “Och, well, the birds are happy.”