Alex Gray - Sleep like the dead

He was waiting for her to make a mistake, she thought, her intuition sharpened by the intensity of the silence between them.

'I don't know where he is,' she said at last then added, 'sorry,' before ringing off.

She stared at the telephone in her hand. What was wrong with her? The guy seemed okay. Knew Billy's regular bar, as well. Was every approach from a stranger going to make her turn and run like a frightened rabbit?

Amit had been a stranger once, she thought. But then Billy had arranged that for her too and now she felt perfectly safe with the man from Lahore.

Billy. Where was he? And why was this innocent call from one of his old army mates making her so nervous?

Marianne looked at the telephone thoughtfully, deciding to store that number so she could call him back whenever she wanted. If she wanted, the voice of caution reminded her. She gave a sigh and rolled onto her back. She was tired of this constant running, moving from place to place. Surely now she could find somewhere to settle down for good?

Her dreams were changing after all and there was no longer any darkness taking her down into the place from which she could never escape.

Y 'e wantae score?'

Billy Brogan whirled around at the familiar Glasgow accent. A pair of dark eyes twinkled at him from behind a counter full of flimsy women's garments. Had he passed him by, Billy Brogan would have taken the lad for a genuine Spaniard, but now that he looked closer, that skin was too dark for even southern Spain. Asian, then, he guessed. And maybe even second or third generation Glaswegian. So what was he doing on the other side of this Mallorcan market stall? Clearly it was more than ladies' panties he was selling.

Brogan's curiosity made him hesitate. The evening market in Cala Millor was pretty crowded but he managed to squeeze his way closer to the edge of the wooden trestle table.

'You talkin taste me, pal?' Billy asked, chin up in a show of defiance.

'Aye.

You're Brogan, aren't you?' The boy was probably no more than seventeen, his thin arms protruding from the sleeves of a black shirt, its cuffs unbuttoned.

Covering himself up in this heat? thought Billy, wondering what sort of marks these loose sleeves might be concealing. Or was he just dodging the mosquitoes? 'What's it taste you, son?' he replied. The toothy grin faded for a moment. 'Ye know ma faither,' he said at last. 'Mr Jaffrey.'

'You're Sahid's boy? Whit're ye doin' out here?'

The boy's grin grew wider once more. 'Could ask you the same thing,' he replied cheekily.

'Holiday,' Brogan shrugged.

'Gap year,' the other replied. 'Dad says I have taste make myself useful.'

Brogan gave a derisive laugh. 'An ye're supplementing yer wages wi sellin' ither stuff. Eh?'

'Aye, why no? Anyroad, are ye wantin' some?'

Brogan laughed out loud this time. The? Buy stuff affa wee Jaffrey's laddie? Naw, son, whoever felt ye aboot me's given ye the wrang story. See, I buy taste sell. In bulk. Know whit ah mean? Nice try, though, pal.' He paused for a moment then turned back again, bending closer so only the boy could hear him. 'An' how did ye know who ah wis? Eh?'

That smile again, winsome and full of the desire for approval. `Ach, Mr Brogan, everybody roon ma bit knows who you are. I mean taste say, ye're famous!'

Dropping his gaze, the boy managed a convincing blush.

'Aye, well,' Brogan shook his head and gave a desultory wave of his hand. 'Keep yer nose clean, awright?'

As the older man made his way through the narrow street he was quite unaware of the pair of dark eyes following his progress.

When he was quite sure that Brogan was out of sight young Jaffrey reached into the pocket of his tracksuit trousers and pulled out his mobile phone. Stepping back from the fray, he slipped into the shadows behind a rail of hanging garments and tapped out a number.

'Hi, it's me,' he said after a few moments. 'Guess who ah've jist seen.'

Amit wandered into the back of the restaurant, mobile phone to his ear. He nodded his dark head, eyes fixed to a spot on the carefully swept floor. That morning's news on the radio had given him a real jolt.

Police are looking for the owner of a flat where two men were found shot dead. Mr William Brogan has not been seen for several days and police are keen to make contact with him.

Now Amit was being presented with a real dilemma. Alerting the authorities was totally out of the question. Not only did he owe a measure of loyalty to this man, but he had other worries. Gnawing his lip, Amit listened to the Hundi's words. If he were to be associated with Brogan, they might come after him again. But could he bring himself to sever the ties that held him to the drug dealer? 'Okay, I hear what you are saying,' he told the man. 'Of course I'll be careful. And, no, I won't leave any traces.'

The man from Lahore clicked the mobile shut and stared out of the window The morning was one of these bright days that presaged rain to come, but while it lasted there was a radiance to the streets outside, making this part of Glasgow almost continental.

Across Great Western Road a cafe had set out silver-topped tables, the blue and white striped awning above shading them from the glare. Already several women were sitting drinking their morning lattes, chattering together. They had probably dropped off their sons at Glasgow Academy and were now indulging in a post-school-run half an hour before heading back to the suburbs.

But, no, the Glasgow schools were still on holiday, weren't they?

Dhesi's kids had been around the restaurant with their mother, prior to being kitted out for the new term.

Amit remembered his own mother, kissing him before school each day. Their farewells had been in the garden, Father had been the one to take them to Aitchison's on his way to work. Suddenly he was back in Lahore again, in one of the public parks beside a rectangle of silken grey water; his father talking to other gentlemen, their freshly laundered white linen garments lending them a certain gravitas. As a boy, Amit and his brothers had always been dressed in proper shirts and long trousers, not the baggy shapeless T-shirts and tracksuit trousers favoured by the young around here. If he could go back… but returning there was impossible now and he had to make the best of the life he had here. As so many others had done.

Amit sighed. He would have to make contact with Marianne again. Had she heard from her brother? he wondered. And if she had, was Brogan now aware of what had taken place in his Argyle Street flat?

Marianne smiled as she waited on the bridge. The sun was out, the day was hers for the taking and soon Amit would be here. Lunch somewhere nice, he'd told her. How about The City Inn, you could meet me on Bell's Bridge, she'd answered, giving him the details of how to get there, where best to park his recently acquired Mercedes.

Marianne had arrived early, not because she was over anxious but because she wished to savour the freedom of standing out in the fresh air a while. She lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed, letting the breeze from the river wrap her cotton skirt around her bare legs.

'Hello,' he said and she started, surprised to find him standing there when there had been no sound of a footfall.

'How have you been?' she smiled, casting her eyes over the man's face. The smile faded as she saw the frown lines between his eyes, the agitated manner he had as they turned to walk side by side along the footpath.

'What's the matter?'

Amit stopped and looked at her gravely. 'You haven't heard, then? I wondered if you knew'

'Knew what? Amit, what's happened?' Marianne took a step back, clutching at the painted railing that separated the path from the waters churning below them.