Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

One day, he thought, his jaw hardening, one day Da would come on to him and he’d give him back everything he deserved.

Dawsholm Woods were beginning to look tired of summer, Kyle thought as he watched a chestnut leaf float silently onto the path. Everything was too full, blowsy and dusty, the air thick with thistledown. There was a smell of decay and something rotting within the trees, maybe a dead animal that hadn’t been cleaned up by foxes and magpies. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. They were into the second half of August already and soon all the deciduous trees would turn russet and brown, carpeting the walkways. As a wee boy Kyle had loved to kick his way through the fallen leaves, hearing them crunch beneath his sturdy shoes. And he’d gathered chessies, made conkers, rattled them against the ones made by his pals, glorying in the frosty evenings when Hallowe’en and Guy Fawkes Night came around again.

Now the thought of darkening nights and shorter days simply depressed him. Summer had meant time spent with Julie or mucking around in Gran’s back garden, waiting for Da to get out. It was, he thought, a symbol of all that he had lost. He kicked a pebble into the long sweep of grassy undergrowth, a fierce anger beginning to burn through his veins. Why did he mind so much about Julie? Couldn’t he be like his pals and play the field with other girls? There were plenty who would go out with him; being in Fourth Year had given them all a new kind of status. Even the girls in Third Year wanted to hang out with them.

But, try as he might, he couldn’t forget those moments when Julie had deliberately caught his eye across the classroom. A wee flirt, he’d told himself, and there were other names for girls like her. But the image of the girl with her long blonde hair and knowing smile made Kyle aware of the hard-on tightening his jeans and he allowed his mind to savour just how he might assuage these feelings of hopelessness.

It was the robin trilling its note deep within the hawthorn bushes that made Maggie realise that summer was waning. That distinctive sound, clear in the morning air, was redolent of frosty mornings and the crispness of autumn leaves underfoot. August might still be summer across in Florida where she’d spent so many months teaching, but here in Scotland there were hints, like the robin, that the seasons were changing. Even the hills were different, their flanks clad now in sweeps of purple as the heather came into flower. It wouldn’t be long before the bracken turned from green to tawny brown, weaving the landscape into muted shades of tweed. Yet there was always something about a new term at this turn of the year that made Maggie Lorimer feel fresh and ready for new challenges. She’d felt the same even as a young child, school bag over her shoulders, new pencils rattling in their tin box, new school-shoes shining like polished conkers. For Maggie it hadn’t been the excitement of seeing her friends again so much as the thrill of learning new things and having a different teacher who would take her another step along what was becoming an adventure.

How many of her own pupils ever felt like that? Maggie wondered, closing the back door on a cold wind that wafted in from the garden. Kids these days were far too aware of their appearance ever to let down their guard and admit to being enthralled by something as uncool as a school subject. She flicked the switch on the kettle, listening to its faint hum as the water heated quickly. Bill must have taken a cup before he’d left, she thought with a pang. He’d let her sleep a bit more as he’d left early for work. Maggie smiled. Och, maybe he’d be back tonight at a reasonable hour. Then her smile straightened out as she remembered why he’d slipped out before she was even awake. That poor wee girl. What sort of night had her mother spent? And had she been able to sleep at all? Maggie poured boiling water into the pot of red-bush tea, the steam fogging up her glass-fronted cabinet, her mood soured now.

Then she heard it again — the robin’s whistle right outside her kitchen window, pure and fresh like every new morning. And a strange feeling of optimism surged through her. They’d find that little girl. Of course they would.

‘Juli-ie! C’mon, you’ll be late for school!’ Mary Donaldson shouted up the stairs. But there was no answering reply, no, Okay, I’ll be right down or even a muttered, Keep your hair on , a phrase that Mary always pretended not to hear. With a sigh, the woman clumped up the two short flights of stairs, several treads creaking under her weight.

‘Julie, you need to get down or you’ll miss the bus!’ Mary scolded through the door to her stepdaughter’s room. She waited just a moment before turning the doorhandle and peering into the darkened room. Blinking against the darkness, Mary could see the curled shape on the bed and in two strides she had crossed the room, flinging open the curtains, her only reward a muffled moan deep within the duvet.

‘It’s nearly eight o’clock. You’ll be late for school!’ Mary protested, tugging a corner of the bedding so that Julie would have to face the light.

A mumbled response came as Julie turned away from the window, hands over her eyes.

‘What? What are you saying?’ Mary demanded. ‘Come on, get up right now!’

‘M’not goin to school,’ Julie’s voice intoned.

‘Oh.’ Mary stood back, temporarily at a loss, her fingers letting go of the duvet. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ she faltered, unsure now, the usual guilt kicking in. What if she’d missed something obvious? Should she have shouted at Julie like that if the girl wasn’t well?

Then to Mary’s astonishment her stepdaughter sat up and looked at her with a plea in her blood-shot eyes. ‘Mary, if I tell you, promise you won’t tell Daddy?’

It was well after nine o’clock and two pots of tea later that Mary Donaldson finally let Julie go back to bed. Frank had gone long since, his job down at the docks demanding an early start every day. Lucky it was her own day off, Mary thought, though lucky wasn’t exactly how she felt right now. She’d have to tell him, promise or no promise. If what Julie was saying was the truth, then her father had every right to know and to do something about it. Mary Donaldson’s hand faltered as she reached for her mobile phone. Frank hated being disturbed. But a call would have to be made just the same. This wasn’t something she could easily keep to herself.

Mary bit her lip anxiously as the tone rang out, fearing what he’d say, worried that he would be angry about a call at work.

When she finally heard his voice, a sob broke from her throat. ‘Oh, Frank,’ she cried. ‘Can you come home? Something’s happened to Julie!’

As head teacher of Muirpark Secondary School, Keith Manson had to perform many unpleasant tasks. The buck, as he was fond of saying, stopped right here in his room. However, there was one of his deputies whose remit was dealing with staff issues and that deputy, Jack Armour, was sitting across from him, arms folded, a look of suppressed fury on his face.

‘I cannot and I will not allow such idiotic accusations to be levelled at someone whose integrity is so impeccable!’ Manson thundered.

‘It’s happened and nothing you or I can say will make it unhappen,’ the man opposite declared wearily. ‘Once the parents have made their complaint then it’s official. You know that as well as I do. Whether Julie Donaldson is a lying little bitch is neither here nor there. An official investigation has to take place.’

‘Eric Chalmers doesn’t deserve this,’ Manson rumbled.

‘Neither did half of the martyrs of the early Church if we’re to believe all that’s been said down the centuries,’ Armour replied drily.