Alex Gray: Glasgow Kiss

Manson glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll reconvene for this afternoon’s staff meeting as printed on your agenda. Right, that’s all.’ The head teacher’s fists grasped the lectern in front of him and one by one the staff moved out of the school hall.

‘Good luck!’ whispered Sandie as she left.

Maggie gave her a weak smile and turned to follow Manson, who was already striding out of the hall.

Keith Manson’s office overlooked the main recreational area, its windows facing south. He was known for opening these windows and booming at any latecomers to school, sending them scuttling across the expanse of tarmac. But today the playground was empty and free of the usual crisp packets and sweetie papers that were the bane of Bob-the-Jannie’s existence. Maggie glanced out of the window as she took her seat in front of Manson’s desk. Beyond the perimeters of the school were rows and rows of tenement buildings, their chimney tops fading into the distance. Today was grey and drizzly, the rain clouds blotting out the hills beyond the river Clyde and the low pressure was already giving Maggie a headache. By lunchtime it would likely be a two-Disprin affair, especially if Manson was on his usual booming form. Rumours about his deafness were legendary. Some said he’d been injured in a knock-out, resulting in his hearing being permanently impaired. Whatever the truth of the matter, Keith Manson’s normal speaking voice was several decibels louder than the average person’s, a trait that served to increase his formidable status.

He cleared his throat and shuffled a few papers on his desk — signs, Maggie suddenly realised, that betrayed his nervousness. Curious to see such unexpected body language from their normally stern head teacher, Maggie relaxed back into her armchair, clasping her hands around her knees and watching Manson’s face.

‘I’ve never encountered a situation quite like this before,’ Manson began, his eyes focused on the paperknife he was now fiddling with. ‘Of course we’ve had bereavements, some sudden, but not circumstances. .’ His voice tailed off in a sigh.

Maggie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Big, bluff Manson lost for words?

‘Your husband is no doubt used to things like this,’ he said suddenly, staring at Maggie. ‘But it’s not something a teacher expects to come across in their career.’

Maggie nodded, feeling a trifle foolish. What did he want her to say? That she was accustomed to death in all its grisly forms? Bill told her things about his cases, of course he did, but usually he spared her the more lurid details.

‘A pupil’s father being a murderer, you mean, Mr Manson?’ she asked.

Manson nodded his head, his eyes wandering back to all the paraphernalia upon his desk. ‘It was a horrible business. Do you remember it?’

‘Yes, vaguely. Bill wasn’t involved in that case, though.’

‘Sweeney, the victim, was out late at night near a pub when he was set upon by Kerrigan. That’s one story. Kerrigan pleaded self-defence and there was enough to suggest that Sweeney had initiated the fight. Had a knife on him. Kerrigan left him to bleed to death in some alleyway.’ Manson’s voice was bitter. ‘Nobody saw a thing.’

‘There was quite a bit of forensic evidence,’ Maggie murmured.

‘Be that as it may, we have a seven-day wonder on our hands now that the papers have chosen to make a thing of Kerrigan’s release. Must be stuck for real news,’ he growled. ‘Anyway, our job is to ensure that Kyle is kept as free from gossip and speculation as possible. I meant what I said about keeping life normal for him. What I want to ask you is to try to keep the lad as busy as you can. Give him jobs to do, things that will take up his free time, stop him from thinking too much.’ He gave Maggie the famous Manson Gimlet Stare.

‘At least the PE department gives him plenty time for his training,’ Maggie offered.

‘Aye,’ Manson replied. ‘We could go down in history if things work out right for Kyle Kerrigan.’ His expression softened. ‘Boy’s got the makings of a real champion.’

Maggie closed her classroom door and leaned against it. For a couple of days it would be a haven of peace and tranquillity till the kids returned on Thursday. She looked around her room and smiled. This was her private domain, her own wee world. Even after a teacher exchange programme when she’d been away for several months she had returned to the same classroom. She walked across to the window and stared out for a moment looking over the rows of tenement rooftops, their slates slick with rain. To her right there were trees screening the bowling green and cricket pitch, a view she enjoyed during the winter months when the trees were bare and she could sometimes make out the shape of distant hills peeking in between the chimney tops. But not today. After the longest, hottest summer the city had ever known, the rains had finally come and Glasgow was now blanketed in a misty drizzle.

The Detective Chief Inspector’s wife gave herself a shake. There was such a lot still to do before term began, so she’d better get a move on. But first she ought to give some thought to Kyle Kerrigan. Picking up the Fourth Year timetables, she spread them out in a fan until she saw his name. A quick glance showed Kyle’s subject choices; English, French, Physics, Maths, Geography and Chemistry were all slotted into different periods of the week. If Maggie’s predictions were correct he could gain top passes in all of his subjects next session. And then he’d be well placed to sit five Highers; easily enough to take him into Glasgow University. Kyle had spoken to Maggie about wanting to read English Literature, a fact that had secretly delighted her. She had loads of lessons already prepared and was looking forward to taking this top class, with one eye firmly on next year’s Higher exam.

But what would happen now that the boy was back in Drumchapel? Would his father encourage him just as his grandmother had? Somehow Maggie doubted that. The older boys had been so different, she mused. Thomas had left school with no qualifications other than an aptitude for getting out of difficult situations: the eldest Kerrigan boy had been the sort who’d made arrows for other more gullible lads to fire. And James had been the bane of her existence last year: thank the Lord he’d decided not to come back for Sixth Year.

Kyle was so unlike them: a keen sportsman and a lad with lots of academic potential. And was that all to change now with his father’s release from jail? Maggie’s lips tightened in a thin hard line. The boys’ mother had died of cancer shortly before her husband’s conviction. And hadn’t his Defence made plenty of that? she thought cynically, remembering a newspaper article about Kerrigan’s shortened term of imprisonment. The Kerrigan children had become victims, too, she told herself: no mother and a father fresh out of Barlinnie.

Life wasn’t fair. Surely she should have learned that by now.

The Argo Centre was really an acronym for The Saint Andrews Recreation and Games Organisation, a fact that almost everybody in Drumchapel had long forgotten since its construction back in the seventies. Glasgow humour being what it was, it was referred to affectionately as the Aggro Centre.

Drumchapel itself had started out as an escape for slum-dwelling families to a newer, fresher life outside the city. The post-war years had been a time of high ideals and lofty aspirations. Close to the leafier suburbs of Bearsden and Knightswood, the City Fathers had hoped to create a social housing programme that would lift its citizens up to emulate their more affluent neighbours. The planners who had shared this vision were ultimately disappointed to see parts of it develop into the sorts of ghettos from which its original residents had tried to escape. Now its population had one of the highest levels of unemployment in Glasgow and drug dealing was rife within its streets.