Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘It’s much better, darling, it’s really the pains down my legs that are more troublesome now, but they’re beginning to lessen. I’ve been taking those anti-inflammatories you told me about. More importantly, how are you? How was work today?’

‘Fine. I was at the old Royal Infirmary for a clinic, probably one of the last I’ll ever have there, I expect, so I didn’t have to take the car to Little France for a change. I’d almost forgotten what a pleasure it can be to walk to work. In the afternoon, I had to consult in a legal case in the High Street and I could go straight there from the hospital. Otherwise much as usual. I’m glad your back’s better. I wondered whether you had any idea what you’d like for Christmas? I thought you might enjoy that new book on the Mitfords, and I could get you some fine soap too. What do you think?’

‘I got the Mitford book from the library yesterday, but I’d love the soap. What about you, have you thought of anything? Is there any new disc you’d like?’

‘Not at the moment. I’d like a surprise. I know it’s more difficult but I’d prefer it if you can be bothered. By the way, I got excellent news today, I’m off on Christmas Day and Boxing Day so I’ll be able to come home and spend a night. We might even manage a service at St. Mary’s.’

‘Wonderful! I was beginning to think that we were going to be out of luck this year. I’ll order a turkey from Fenton Barns and we’ll get a ham too. You’ll be pleased to hear that Aunt Judith can’t make it, she’s…’

‘Sorry Ma, I’m going to have to go. Someone’s ringing the doorbell. I’ll phone you back later tonight or sometime tomorrow evening.’

Dr Clarke put down the phone, dressed in haste and ran to the front door. Despite the delay her caller was still waiting for her.

Friday 2nd December

An icy wind blew on platform twelve of Waverley Station. A wind that cut like a cold blade through clothing, and which seemed to have travelled unimpeded from the steppes of Siberia. While her fellow-passengers huddled together in groups like cattle in a snowstorm, each gaining shelter from the other, Detective Sergeant Alice Rice paced up and down the length of the platform in a futile attempt to keep warm and make the train arrive sooner. She stopped her restless activity only to listen to the flat tones of the station announcer:

‘The train from Glasgow due to arrive on platform twelve at nine am has been delayed and is now expected at nine-fifteen am.’

No more than a bland statement of fact. The bulletin tailed off without explanation or apology. While Alice was digesting this information and considering whether she could be bothered to put pen to paper to complain, a little man, smelling strongly of drink, sidled up to her. His clothes had ‘charity shop’ written all over them. Oversized black plastic shoes with pristine brown laces, ill-fitting sheepskin coat and fake cavalry twill trousers exposing nylon Argyll-patterned socks. One of the hopeless combinations of poverty, drink and middle age, to whom the capital could no longer offer a home. She became aware of the stench of warm lager fumes close to her face.

‘’Lo, hen,’ he exhaled into her breathing zone.

She could have moved away, pretending to have heard nothing, but she chose instead to respond, thinking it would make the time pass more quickly.

‘Hello,’ she replied, smiling in a half-hearted fashion. Sensing a green light the drunk immediately launched into a practised monologue, something about Glasgow’s virtues and Edinburgh’s vices, meandering into the state of Scottish football and the Pope’s nazi past. He seemed to require only an occasional nod from Alice to keep up his inane patter. Before he could start on a new topic, Alice became aware of a train drawing up on the platform. She smiled politely at the little man and, intending to detach herself from him, began to move along the train looking for a less-crowded carriage near the front. A journey of over fifty minutes in his company, in a badly ventilated space, would be beyond the call of charity, duty or anything else. She settled down at a table for four, occupied only by an austere-looking woman wearing blue-tinted spectacles. She looked up from her newspaper momentarily to see who was intruding into her space. As Alice unfastened her briefcase and took a copy of a statement from it she became aware of the familiar scent of stale lager. She glanced up to see the grinning face of her small companion as he edged himself towards the vacant seat by her side. He flopped down into it noisily, introducing an additional smell, the sweet, sickly smell of the unwashed.

‘’Lo, hen.’

This time the greeting was directed at the bespectacled lady passenger who, in an attempt to avoid engaging in conversation with anyone, seemed to have shrunk into herself. In response she smiled, with her mouth only, at the drunk, and then immediately lowered her eyes again. If she believed that the coolness of her response would stop any further unwelcome conversation she was wrong.

‘Hen. Hen!’ he persisted. ‘This lady…’-he gestured expansively towards Alice-‘…this lady’s ma wife, Mary. We’ve been married about ten years now. Oh, we’ve had our ups and doons, what couple’s no, but I’ve stuck by her through thick and thin and she’s always…’-he gazed at Alice fondly-‘been there for me…’

Alice was paralysed by surprise into inaction. As the urge to dissociate herself from the drunk, even to a stranger, grew, she heard him say:

‘We’ve just been blessed with the one bairn. A wee boy. We cry him Jesus.’

‘Excuse me,’ Alice said to the woman opposite, ‘before this journey I’d never met this man. He is not my husband. We have no child.’

The woman nodded her understanding and Alice found herself then smiling, weakly, at the little man. She wondered why on earth she was smiling at him. A desire to avoid hurting his feelings after this public rejection? No, more likely a concern to avoid any transition in him from affability to aggression. He was drunk and Scottish after all. Having successfully unnerved the two female passengers, the man closed his eyes and began, in what seemed to be seconds only, to snore loudly.

Glasgow Sheriff Court was packed with people: a strange assortment of sharp-suited lawyers, anxious-looking litigants, police, social workers and sullen-faced criminals. As Alice was trying to find out from the reception desk which court she was due to attend, she was tapped on the shoulder. Turning, she recognised Anna O’Neil, Deputy Procurator Fiscal, and an old friend from university.

‘The trial’s off…’ Anna said. ‘The accused pled guilty to a lesser charge. You won’t be needed. The advocate depute’s released all the witnesses.’

A broad grin spread across Alice’s face. She could have shouted for joy, the relief at not having to appear in court was so immense. She had prepared herself for the ordeal, felt ready for it, but experienced not a tinge of regret that she would be deprived of the opportunity to voice the testimony she had been rehearsing in her head for the last few days.

Alice Rice had entered the police force, on the accelerated promotion scheme for graduates, in the belief that whatever else such a career could lack, it would, always, provide interest. A challenging job, not necessarily well paid but with endless variety and the chance to do something worthwhile. It had taken only a few months on the beat for her to realise that a great deal of the work was mundane, repetitious and thankless. Fortunately, she was an optimist, believing that as she progressed up the organisation the new horizons facing her would be stimulating and to some extent this had proved true.