II
The sharp morning wind hurtled across George Square, eddying around monuments to the forgotten heroes of forgotten wars. It was the coldest place in the city center. The brisk wind gathered speed across the wide open plain, pushing people into side streets.
Paddy walked past the giant post office building and crossed over to the square, in front of the turreted City Chambers, around the imposing white cenotaph, and saw them: a small gathering of people dressed in white with placards at the far end of the square. Some wore white sweaters or overcoats, one a thin anorak. They were huddled together lighting small, sputtering candles with a Bic, guarding the flames carefully with their hands and bodies and coats.
She had eaten a whole bag of Lemon Bonbons on the way here, buying them as a treat for her mum, from the sweet shop at the station. She had one bonbon, just for a taste, and then another and then another one after that, and again and again until the bag was obviously half empty and she either had to throw them away or eat them all and buy another bag. Her teeth were coated in sugar, squeaking from the bicarbonate in the sherbet.
Queasy with glucose and guilt, she approached across the square and spotted a familiar green sports jacket hovering in front of the pristine line, breaking it up. It was JT, notebook in hand, with his head tilted to the side, a stance that always denoted heavy questioning. He’d heard about Thillingly and beaten her to it. She stopped, sighing with defeat, shutting her eyes. The wind brushed her hair from her ear and suddenly Burns was nuzzling into her neck, his hot breath damp on her skin. She gave a pleasured shiver at the memory.
Sex had always been a bewildering fumble that she got distracted from but never lost in. She had a moment in every sexual encounter when she was lost in everyday considerations: where she had left her house keys, would her diet work, should she get her hair cut. But not this time. It was because she had no respect for Burns. She smiled and opened her eyes, finding herself flushed, remembering where she was and what she was meant to be doing here.
The green sports jacket moved along the line to a tall woman. Cursing, she walked up to JT and stood at his elbow, listening in as unobtrusively as she could.
He was quizzing a tall woman with an aristocratic nose and thick, lush gray hair pulled back and up into a leather clasp.
“For the release of Nelson Mandela.” Her accent was soft and English but authoritative somehow, as if she was used to public speaking. “He’s a lawyer who’s been imprisoned in South Africa -”
“For starting a violent uprising.” JT spoke quickly as he always did when he was being confrontational. “Some people would say you’re supporting violent criminals. What would you say to those people?”
“Well,” the woman replied, smiling uncomfortably, “Amnesty’re not supporting his release as a prisoner of conscience. We’re arguing for his right to a fair trial.”
JT’s pencil hovered idly over the page. He glanced up, waiting for her to say something outrageous.
“You ought to write that down,” said the woman. “That’s an important point.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll remember it. There are people who say he’s the head of the South African equivalent of the IRA. What would you say to those people?”
Paddy stood behind him and listened to him wittering. He wasn’t asking about Thillingly at all and she wondered what the hell he was doing here. Amnesty held their candlelit vigil in George Square every Saturday, each week for a different person. Mandela was a controversial choice because he had supported an armed struggle after the Sharpeville massacre.
“Stuck for a story?” she asked.
JT turned and looked at her suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, you know, I heard they were supporting Nelson Mandela this week. Just wanted to ask them about it.”
“Yeah, looking for something to dazzle Ramage with? Well, you’ve missed your chance with this baby.” JT smiled smugly. “I’ve just done it. And now I’m going back to write it up.” He snapped his notebook shut and walked away. Paddy watched him saunter across the square, shaking her head slowly, staying disappointed in case he looked back.
The Amnesty supporters formed a solemn semicircle around two posters: one the Amnesty sign and the other a typewritten summary of Mandela’s case below a slightly blurred photograph of him as an earnest young man, his Afro in a side parting. Above it, broken Letroset letters in purple felt pen read 20 YEARS WITHOUT A TRIAL.
Paddy stamped her feet against the freezing cold. The protesters looked at her, distrustful, avoiding eye contact because she knew JT.
“Look, um…” She stepped back, keen to differentiate herself from bombastic JT. “I don’t know how to approach this. I’m a very junior, not an important reporter like him”-she thumbed after JT-“but I wanted to ask you about a man called Mark Thillingly.”
The line rippled, disconcerted. A man at the far end shuffled his feet; someone coughed. A delicate girl in the middle of the lineup sobbed suddenly, covering her face. Her neighbor put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest, holding the back of her head as she convulsed into the cables of his white Aran knit. He looked accusingly at her.
“Mark was our friend.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Paddy. “Please, I don’t want to upset anyone.”
The girl sobbed afresh, noisily gulping air. Paddy noted the gray-haired woman roll her eyes, so she turned and spoke to her instead. “I do know that Mark was a good man.”
The woman took Paddy by the elbow, pulling her aside. “Mark was a good man, you’re right. He was very committed.” She nodded back to the sobbing girl. “Natasha hardly knew him but she enjoys any drama to the hilt.”
“I’m sorry he died.”
The woman checked she was out of earshot of the others and dropped her voice confidentially. “His suicide was a shock.”
Paddy matched her tone. “Why?”
The woman shook her head. “He was here last week. Seemed fine. Upbeat. Something must have happened between then and Wednesday night.”
Paddy looked down to the cenotaph, scratching around for one more question. “He was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Where did he work?”
“The Easterhouse Law Center.”
Paddy nodded at her shoes. “Right.”
The woman was looking at her curiously. “You knew that already.”
It was so cold that the woman’s nose blushed red, her eyes narrowed against the wind, the skin comfortable in that position, and Paddy noticed that she looked rugged, as though she spent a lot of time outside. She imagined her briskly walking around the grounds of a grand estate, small dogs yapping at her heels.
“Could it be anything to do with Vhari Burnett’s murder?”
The woman nodded sadly. “Yes, poor Vhari. She was a member as well. Mark brought her to our first meeting. They were an item back then.”
“An item back when?”
“Years ago.” She thought about it. “Five years ago? About that. That’s when we started this.” She turned and looked back at the group, taking in the crappy poster and Natasha crying, dry-eyed. She raised an appalled eyebrow and hummed to herself.
“And Mark was married then?”
“Oh, no, he went out with Vhari years ago. They knew each other at law school. Before he married Diana. I think their families lived near each other.”
Paddy nodded. “Why did they split up? Did she chuck him?”
She smiled at Paddy’s nerve. “Other way ’round, actually. He went off with the woman who became his wife. Vhari stopped coming to meetings but she was still committed. Wrote letters from home, made a financial contribution, that sort of thing.”
“Was Mark ever violent?”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, was he ever violent?”
“The police think he killed her, don’t they?”
“So I’ve heard. “
The woman thought about it for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t think he was even fit enough to be violent. He got breathless walking up hills. He smoked like mad and was a bit-” Her eyes flickered down to Paddy’s body but she stopped herself from looking. “Chubby.”