Gillian Galbraith - Dying Of The Light

‘Where are they?’ David Chalmers asked dully.

‘Along by the bridge at Ma Aitken’s.’

‘How many?’

‘Four or five.’

‘OK. I’ll meet you at your gate in ten minutes.’

Thinking only of his wife and twin daughters, he bolted the remainder of his fry-up, no longer savouring the ritual of putting the pieces together, and gulped down his mug of tea. No time for the scones and honey. He’d have them later, when he got back. In the hallway, he picked up his olive green anorak and set off at a brisk pace towards Claremont Park and ‘Jordan’.

The night air felt sharp, a strong breeze blowing off the sea from the east, carrying salt in the air and waking him up. In his luminous yellow jacket his neighbour, Bill Keane, was visible a hundred yards away, and David Chalmers waved at him as he approached.

‘Forgotten your vest?’ Keane asked.

Looking down quickly, Chalmers patted the side of his cheek, cross with himself for being so inefficient. He knew the value of their day-glo wear, distinguishing them from anyone else on the street, drawing attention to any fracas that might ensue and warning all and sundry of their presence. In an attempt to soothe his companion, Keane, his hat nearly wrenched off by the rising wind, lifted his placard from the pavement and handed it to the other man. Chalmers took it eagerly, reading the message emblazoned on it in jet black capitals. ‘YOU CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION IN LEITH’.

‘Right enough’ he muttered.

Together, the pair continued past the Links and headed towards Seafield Place, a few pedestrians eyeing them warily as they marched on, the placard held high, its message lit up by each passing car. Halfway down the street their prey came into view, a woman lurking in the deep shadows cast by the pedestrian bridge, facing seaward and watching the road as if expecting company. The sound of their footsteps on the pavement was drowned by the engine of a huge articulated lorry, its accelerator revving in readiness for the lights to change and filling the air with thick fumes. Keane’s tap on the woman’s shoulder had her whirling round, the momentary panic on her face quickly replaced by an exasperated sneer.

‘Yous again,’ she hissed, her hostility undisguised.

‘Aye, lassie, us again,’ Keane replied calmly. ‘So, on your way, eh? Back to where you came from.’

The girl, her face uncomfortably close to the men, unexpectedly flicked the peak of her baseball cap up and shouted in their faces, ‘Lena! You up at Boothacre?’

In the distance, from the direction of the cottages, a faint female voice replied, ‘Aye. Is it they jokers again?’

‘Aha. I’m oaf the now. See you up at Elbe, eh?’

‘OK. Over ’n’ oot, Belle.’

‘Roger,’ Belle answered, before, laughing and looking scornfully at the two men, she taunted them. ‘Nae rogering for yous though, eh? No the nicht, anyway.’

So saying, she sauntered, hips swaying provocatively, toward Salamander Street and the darkness. In response to a snatch of ‘Greensleeves’, Keane fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile, his wallet coming with it and falling onto the wet pavement. An urgent voice said, ‘Bill, get yourself over here and bring anyone you’ve got with you. It’s the van. They’re in Carron Place again, the cheeky bisoms!’

Accidentally dropping the phone from his cold fingers, Keane swore in his frustration and David Chalmers immediately discarded his placard and bent down to pick up his friend’s possessions from the ground. Acknowledging his help with a curt nod, Bill finally replied, ‘I’ll see you there, Raymond. David’s going to check the cemetery first. One of them’s hanging about the place as usual.’

Lena was neither difficult to find nor troublesome to dislodge. She had found only a token hiding place a few yards up Boothacre Lane. When she saw the man approaching her she did not look knowingly at him, an illicit bargain sealed, but instead raised both hands above her head theatrically to signal her surrender, and then sashayed past the Lodge House, heading back towards Mother Aitken’s pub. When, finally, she disappeared past the warehouse corner, David Chalmers began his walk westward towards Carron Place.

By the junction with Claremont he noticed a woman, short-haired and in a calf length skirt, waiting between the tall gateposts of Villa Deodati. As he came closer, she stayed exactly where she was, the defiant hussy, until he was only a few yards distant.

He was familiar with the girls’ new techniques – dressing down in an attempt to escape detection. Well, he thought, it won’t work with me. I’m not so easily fooled. Anyway, it’s the eyes that are the giveaway, the windows of the soul. That adamantine hardness, that inhuman look, cannot easily be disguised.

While he was still openly looking her up and down, a car arrived which, unknown to him, had been shadowing him for the past few minutes. It stopped beside them and a uniformed officer in the car slowly rolled down his window.

‘On the prowl, eh, sir? That’s illegal now, the new Act… the Prostitutes Act. But maybe that’s not enough to put you off? One of the hardliners, I daresay. We’ll need to name and shame you, eh?’

David Chalmers heard himself bluster, a string of high-pitched vowels emanating from his mouth, outrage robbing him of the power of coherent speech. Then he remembered that he was not wearing his luminous jacket, and that he had left his placard at the Boothacre Cottages. Well, at least the man was doing his duty, and this certainly was the high visibility enforcement that they had all been promised. While he was still babbling excuses, to his surprise, the woman began to speak. Usually, in his experience, the hussies remained silent, sullen, aware of the need to say nothing in the face of the enemy.

‘I’m not exactly sure what you’re implying, Constable, but, perhaps I should make my position clear. My name is Sandra Pollock, Sister Sandra usually, and I’m a nun. A Sacred Heart sister if you’re any the wiser. I’m based at the convent in Eskbank, but I was seeing a friend. I’m waiting for a lift from Sister Rowena, but she’s late, maybe lost for all I know.’

A guffaw could be heard from the passenger side of the car as the driver apologised profusely, his face puce with embarrassment. And as they drew away from the kerb, loud giggles could still be heard from the marked panda car. Flustered and still unable to speak, David Chalmers doffed his cap to the nun, who acknowledged him with the slightest nod. Both felt uncomfortably exposed, left unchaperoned together, some bizarre bond temporarily created between them because of the policeman’s mistake. Each felt the need to say something, but neither felt up to the task.

Carron Place is a cul-de-sac, a dead-end leading from Salamander Street to nowhere. The uneven tarmac on its road is flanked by cheap industrial units, each with its own car park, and commercial yards protected by high mesh fencing. During working hours it is a vibrant area, lorries transporting goods to and fro, workmen shouting to each other, and white-collared executives managing things, ensuring that business continues until 5 p.m. But once closing time arrives and the workers have gone, it becomes a desolate, soulless place, a street no longer serving any purpose.