The Low Road (12 page)

She screwed up her face, then recited, “He said to say you ken his mother. She's caa'd Jenny.” She watched McAllister to see if he recognized the name and when he nodded she continued, “Tell McAllister I'm goin' across the waater. Stopping at the
place where they study the fishes.” She finished, saying, “That's all he telt me tae tell you,” and she was gone in a flash of off-white summer dress, no coat, no proper shoes, only plimsolls.

“Thanks,” he called out, but she didn't hear.

Surely it was ‘doon the waater'—a boat down the Clyde,
he was thinking. Not that Jimmy McPhee, a Highlander, would have said it in that dialect—this was a purely Glasgow expression describing the steamboat trip down the river into the Firth of Clyde, making for one of the seaside destinations like Rothsay or Dunoon. Then again, Jimmy had lived in Glasgow as a young man, did his boxing training here.
Where they study the fishes
—McAllister puzzled over it, made no sense of it, before deciding he needed help.

The phone box smelled of fish and chips and urine. The receiver was sticky. He only had a florin, no pennies. It was nearing midnight. The switchboard was closed, but the sub's desk was taking calls.

“
Herald
.”

“John McAllister here. Is Mary Ballantyne around?”

“Mary, it's for you.”

He heard a silence as the call was transferred.

“Ballantyne,” was all she said.

“McAllister,” he replied, amused at her adoption of a very male sobriquet.

“Uh-huh?”

“Tomorrow night. Fancy a visit to some boxing clubs?”

“Are you asking me on a date, then?”

He could hear her smile, but the question perturbed him. “My mother promised to contact Gerry Dochery senior, and I think a visit to some of the deceased's friends is in order.”

“I'll be in late morning. Say midday? See you then, McAllister.”

And she was gone. And he was left holding the receiver, the dial tone loud in the still, late night. And he was feeling foolish. Why he hadn't mentioned the message from Jimmy he didn't know.
Holding it back to impress her in person, are you?
his conscience asked.

As he walked back to the flat another thought nagged him.
A week
, Sandy had asked.
How could he stay away a whole week?
But he knew he was committed. Telling Joanne, dealing with the disapproval of his soon to be stepdaughter, his mother, Granny Ross, Don McLeod, all at the
Gazette
, that he would deal with—tomorrow.

His last thought as he fell asleep in his boyhood room, the one he had shared with his wee brother, the one who went to “sleep with the fishes,” was of Joanne, the time he had keeked through the sitting room window and watched her as she danced to a record of Elvis, totally unaware she had an audience; this was the Joanne he had fallen in love with. This was the Joanne who was now absent. He was terrified she would never return. And afraid his cowardice would delay his own return. Maybe forever.

N
ext morning McAllister was up early to fetch the newspaper from the corner shop. When he came back his mother had the frying pan in action. He knew there was no point in protesting that coffee and a cigarette was all he needed. Coffee was unheard of in this part of Glasgow, singling you out as a misfit or pretentious or both. Not that those words would be used; a much more vulgar expression, in a strong Glasgow accent, came to mind and made him smile.

“You still buying your rashers from the butcher in Maryhill?” he asked as he tucked into the perfectly cooked bacon.

“Aye, and I still go to Tommy McPhee for ma fish.”

He knew he might be an adult, but Mother's rules applied—no reading a newspaper at the table.

She refilled his cup, the tarlike tea having the same caffeine hit as an espresso. “What are you on the day?”

“Still looking for my friend.”

“I posted a note to Mr. Dochery last night. He should get it in the second post o' the day.” There was no change of expression in his mother's face, or voice, but the disapproval was clear from the way she put the kettle on the stove, with a clang of metal upon metal.

“Thank you.”

“I don't want thanks. An' I hope you have a good reason for getting involved with Wee Gerry Dochery. The man is long lost,
especially to his father. An' you're no longer a lad trying to make a name for yerself. You have responsibilities.” As she turned away, he knew she was interfering only because she was scared for him. “I'll help you this once—as much for Mr. Dochery, poor soul, as for you. But I'll no' help you any further.”

She left him to finish his breakfast, although two eggs, three rashers of best Ayrshire bacon, the butcher's own black pudding, and his mother's tattie scones were almost beyond him. But he ate it all to please her.

He pushed his chair back. Taking the plate to the sink, he began to run water for the washing up. That brought his mother back in a hurry.

“Away and read your paper. It's a woman's job washing up.”

He smiled at that, wondering what Mary would say to that. And Joanne.

He sat in the bow window with the newspaper, keeping an eye on the street for strangers. The front-page headline was direct: “Gangs Claim Another Victim.” How Sandy could be certain he didn't know, but he must have the evidence to print such a headline.

The story told it all. Sources in the police, the fire brigade, the procurator fiscal's office, all said the same. Fire deliberately started; the boxing club previously threatened by person or persons unknown. Who had threatened the club owner, and for what reasons, no one was sure. And at least one other former boxer had received the same warning, so his premises were temporarily out of business. The information of the threats had come via an anonymous tip to the
Herald
. McAllister guessed from the wording—
a call was placed to a senior crime reporter
—that Mary had taken the call.

He turned to his own copy and was pleased to see the subs had touched it minimally. He'd also been given a byline. That he hadn't
expected. He was reading the editorial, a piece bemoaning the crime statistics, when the realization hit him. The byline—Jimmy would know he was here. And Gerry. And all on the
Gazette
.

Joanne would see the paper, as the
Herald
was delivered to his home. He remembered as soon as he awoke he needed to call them. But he had procrastinated and now it was nine o'clock. The newspaper would be there. He went for his hat, told his mother, “I'll see you when I see you, but don't cook for me,” and left to use the phone at the newspaper.

There were few people in the newsroom. Most would start to drift in around lunchtime.

A copyboy—girl actually, but that didn't change the title—asked, “Can I get you anything, Mr. McAllister?” She was another one with that eager look he saw in Mary Ballantyne.

“Aye,” he said, “twenty Passing Clouds.” He showed her the packet and told her where to buy them, then gave her the money, almost adding,
And keep the sixpence change for yourself
, as she seemed so ridiculously young.

No one was around. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“
Highland Gazette
, how may I help you?”

The pleasure at hearing the soft sibilant Highland voice startled him. “Hello, Fiona, McAllister here.”

“Hello, Mr. McAllister, how are you?” He could hear the pleasure in her voice.

“I'm fine, thanks. Is Mr. McLeod about?”

“No, but Rob is here.” She transferred the call to the reporters' room. As he waited for Rob to pick up, knowing he would answer only if there was no one else to take the call, he felt uneasy. He would have to explain he would be away for a week and preferred it was not to Rob, his junior reporter.
Definitely no more than a week
.
If I don't find Jimmy in that time, so be it.
He was so busy reassuring himself, he didn't notice Rob saying, “
Gazette.
Hello?”

“McAllister.”

“Not McAllister the hotshot columnist?”

“No, McAllister the small-town editor.” It came out more bitter than he meant. “I need to speak to Don.”

“Leave a number. I'll get him to call you back.”

“He can reach me at the
Herald
until noon.”

Rob whistled. “Definitely the big time.”

McAllister ignored him. “Have you seen Joanne?”

“No, but I promised I'd call round there tonight.”

“Thanks. I'll talk to you soon.” He hung up, not wanting any more questions from Rob. Or teasing. Rob had a good nose for a story, and he'd want to know what was so important that McAllister needed to be in the city.

He knew now was a good time to speak to Joanne. He would not have to hear the doubt from Annie. And Rob would be with her in the evening for company, for her to talk to, for her to ask Rob the questions that he didn't have the answers to, and for Rob in his bright joking way to reassure her. Making her laugh—he seemed to have lost the knack.

He dialed. The phone rang out. There was no answer. He tried again. Again no answer.

The girl came back with his cigarettes and change. He still had two left in the packet on the desk. He offered her one. She accepted. He gave her a light, and when she started coughing, he said, “You don't smoke, do you?”

“No, but I'm trying to learn. Makes me look older.”

He grinned as it all came flooding back. First a copy kid, then a cadet, then a junior reporter, five years in all. Then, and only if you were very good, and lucky, and if the right story came at the right time, and if you cultivated the right contacts, and kept the sub-editors sweet, and kept on the right side of the cynical hard-drinking old journalists who had seen it all, only then might you
get somewhere, especially if your starting place was the
Herald
. If none of the stars aligned, you'd end up on a local newspaper, in whichever small town you'd originally left to make your name in the big city. A newspaper like the
Highland Gazette
.

“Empty.” Mary had appeared, picked up the cigarette packet, and shook it. Throwing it at a bin and missing, she ignored it, saying, “I'll die if I don't get a some coffee down me.”

“If we go to Seraphini's I might just offer you a cigarette,” he said; waving an unopened packet at her.

“You're on.” She laughed.

The café was not far, but it was still a brisk walk. He remembered coming here after his return from Europe, when he craved the sound of any language other than Glaswegian.

“It's yerself, McAllister,” the still round but greatly reduced owner, Marco, said as he and Mary walked into the warmth and fug and chatter.

That Marco and his brother and father had been interned for the duration of Italy's alliance with Hitler, McAllister knew. How it had reduced the man formally known as “Romeo” he hadn't given much thought to. But the sight of him, with little of his hair left, and a distinctive stoop, and his hands, hands that had once been roughened by no more than guitar strings, showed the effects of years of hard labor on a farm or a quarry or whatever menial duty the interned prisoners had been assigned, reminded McAllister how much the Italians of Scotland had suffered. It made no difference that they were mostly second- or third-generation Italian Scots who had brought coffee and ice cream, art, music, and vitality to many a small town in their adopted homeland; they were classified as enemy aliens, interned on the Isle of Man along with many Jewish people, and also other longtime citizens in Great Britain, including some of German heritage.

They took a tiny table covered with a red-and white-checkered oilcloth, then ordered.

“What's happening?” Mary asked after she had thrown back the first espresso in one gulp, then signaled for a second.

“I had an emissary from Jimmy visit me last night . . .” He saw her stare and knew she was about to say,
Why didn't you tell me?
so he quickly continued, “A wee girl, she brought a message and . . .”

“That means Jimmy McPhee knows where you live.”

He hadn't thought of that. And he hadn't given thought to Gerry Dochery knowing where he lived, and that he was there, at home, with his mother, and writing about the gangs.

“Jimmy didn't identify himself, but he told the child his mother's name so I'd know it was from him. ‘
I'm going across the water. Stopping at the place where they study the fishes
,' that was the message.” He didn't have to explain to Mary that “stopping” meant staying. She was Scottish enough in spite of her accent to know that. “Maybe he meant ‘
doon the water
,' but not being local . . .”