But would anyone? I know I wasn’t alone in this sense of dislocation. The war had ripped a great big hole in the continuity of all our lives. We look back with incomprehension at the time before. Like England viewed from France. Men were coming home to strangers, frightening children they’d never met. Five years of fighting alters a man’s perspective, hardens him or turns him to mush. Coming back to wives and lovers, how would they explain the night terrors and the daytime despair? How could they talk about it? The vocabulary was different and there were no translators. I was glad not to have anyone to burden.
Was I therefore being unfair to Fiona? Unfair to us? There had barely been a glimpse of the girl I knew, but in her way she’d been through worse wars than many’s the squaddie. Who was I to judge anyone who could still function, still hold her head up, living in a slum, with all that she’d loved torn or distorted? We owed each other some kindness for what we’d been. Maybe once all this had passed I’d take her out for fancy cakes and hot scones on her day off at Miss Cranston’s.
The other revelation was that all roads led to the Slatterys. But how the hell was I to get at them? I could just walk up to their big house at Bearsden and beat the door down, but I assumed they’d have boiling oil perched on the battlements to fend off intruders. Or even if they let me in, they were hardly likely to open up their black hearts to me and confess their sins. They knew they’d get no absolution from me.
I could do my pub crawl again and wait till I ran into the pair of blackguards that had thrown me to the fishes. That was certainly tempting. I had a score or two to settle. And with Samantha Campbell’s gun in my pocket, the sides were more evenly balanced. However, apart from the personal satisfaction of breaking the bastards’ heads open, it wouldn’t provide me with evidence of a stitch-up for Hugh’s appeal.
‘Can we use it?’ I asked a disconcerted Sam later.
‘Being the father neither proves nor disproves Hugh’s guilt. But if I’d known that the boy was his during the trial, I could have used it. Now, even if they believed her statement, it doesn’t basically alter the case against him.’
‘Surely they’d believe Fiona? Why on earth would she make that up?’
‘But why bring it up now?’
‘To save the father of her son from a hanging!’
‘It’s not a proof of anything.’
‘Don’t be so… so lawyerly! Wouldn’t they consider it impossible that a father could do that to his own son?’
Sam shook her head resignedly. ‘You’ve led a sheltered life, Douglas Brodie, if you think it’s too far-fetched for a father to abuse his child. The cases I’ve seen…’
In truth, I knew it too. As a copper I heard whispers in the street about certain families. You tried not to believe it. But in these overcrowded stinking dens, where three generations lived piled on top of each other, things happened that would turn your stomach. With his wife always pregnant, a goatish father with a drink in him is too easily distracted by a promising daughter. They operated like primitive tribes on the very fringe of civilisation, amoral and driven by bestial yearnings. No one wanted to believe it, and there was a silent conspiracy to keep it hushed up, as though the shame on our fair city was too much to contemplate.
But sometimes the cases were so bad they seeped into court. There the tragedies were brought steaming to the surface by a distraught daughter or a tortured son. They found it no use to cite scripture; the stories of Lot and his daughters, or Abraham and his wife-sister Sarah offered no precedent in the eyes of the Kirk or the Law. The red-eyed abusers were given hard labour by the courts and rougher justice by their fellow inmates. Even criminals had standards.
I mulled over what the appeal court judges would make of the revelation about Hugh and Rory. If Sam was representative of the sceptical judicial mind, they would have seen and heard everything in their time and wouldn’t be seduced by emotional appeals. I’d seen judges in action. They dealt with interpreting the law. It was nothing to do with justice, a term only lay folk believed in, like kids and the tooth fairy. My meeting with Fiona had edged me closer to being convinced of Hugh’s innocence, but the appeal court hadn’t danced all night with her at the Attic.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I watched Defence Counsel Samantha Campbell turn in on herself, give up the Scotch and work on the appeal till her eyes grew red-rimmed and dark-lined. I went with her on two visits to Barlinnie and sat beside her as she ran through her approach with Hugh. Hugh himself seemed past caring, or maybe it was the medication. Though he came to life when I told him about the Arran trips and my unintended dip.
‘Christ, Dougie! You have to stop! I don’t want you killed to save my neck. It’s no’ worth it.’
‘It’s no longer just about your neck, old pal. This is personal. Someone’s out to kill me and I’ve got some payback for them when I catch them up.’ I rubbed my livid cheek scar for emphasis.
‘What about Father Cassidy?’ asked Sam.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. He was always that good to me.’
She went on: ‘That night, the night before they found all the evidence at your flat? Do you remember him helping you to bed? Do you recall anyone helping you home?’
He rubbed his tortured face. ‘I don’t remember. I just don’t remember a thing. It’s a’ a blur.’
I waited till he settled. ‘I saw Fiona, Hugh.’
His head shot up. ‘Oh aye. How’s she keeping?’
‘Not bad. She was asking for you.’
‘She doesnae come to see me. I told her no’ to. It’s no’ fair.’
I gave it a beat. ‘I saw Rory’s photo.’
He sprang to his feet. ‘That’s no’ for the trial! I won’t have it, you hear? She shouldnae have told you.’
The warder came over and made him sit. He started rubbing his hands together and twisting the fingers as if trying to screw them off.
‘Hugh, listen to me. It could help you, man!’
‘It’ll no’! It’ll just hurt her. I don’t want her being dragged into court. Her name in a’ the papers again. Ye hear me?’
Sam and I looked at each other. She shrugged. ‘We hear you, Hugh. We won’t pursue this line in court.’
I took another line. ‘She said your contact, the man with the drugs, was Gerrit Slattery and his pals. Is that right?’
He just nodded.
‘How do I find him?’
‘He finds you, Dougie. He finds you.’
‘Look, that’s not good enough. This is important. He must have some hangouts?’
Hugh looked at me speculatively. ‘You’ll no be stopped, will you? Just as bull-heided as ever.’
I said nothing.
‘There’s a bar in the West End. Where they hang oot. The Tappit Hen. But, Dougie, it’s a thieves’ kitchen. Even the polis won’t go in. It’s no’ the sort of place that you can just casually wander into and ask for a wee chat with the local razor king, you know. At least no’ without getting a hatchet in the head.’
‘I like pubs with character.’
‘Talk sense, Dougie. They’ll murder you.’
‘They think they already did.’
Hugh looked at me as if I was daft.
*
It was daft. But the events of the last few days hadn’t left me feeling too rational. I was being treated like a puppet. I don’t respond well to other folk yanking my strings, especially vermin. It’s a failing of mine, but not something I’m working on.
I slipped the big Webley inside my borrowed jacket. I left Sam to her pile of papers on the dining-room table and headed out into the warm Saturday night. I got off the tram at the Byers Road and walked down a couple of side streets, noting the alleyways all round me. I found the pub. It was seven o’clock and the Tappit Hen was already buzzing. I could see the silhouettes chatting and laughing through the stained-glass windows of this poor man’s cathedral.