Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

Still, it was nearly Visiting Time again. Flynn hadn’t been surprised to see Raincoat coming in that first evening. He’d called in twice since then, bringing sweets and magazines. The police officer’s concern made Flynn wonder just how badly injured he was. What were they telling Raincoat that they hadn’t told their patient? Or was it just Detective Sergeant Wilson’s conscience bothering him?

The door to Flynn’s single room was ajar and he could hear several pairs of footsteps coming along the corridor with a chatter of voices that he’d learnt to associate with Visiting Time. Half of him wanted to see a visitor sliding through the door and half wanted peace to watch the telly. He flicked a switch and Bart Simpson appeared resplendent in yellow and blue cartoon colours. Flynn settled back into the pillows, the neck brace propping his head upright.

He was giggling at some self-deprecating remark of Homer’s when Lorimer walked into the room.

Flynn’s eyes flicked across at his visitor then focused on the TV screen once more.

‘Sorry if I’m interrupting anything.’

‘Naw, you’re no’,’ Flynn shifted his gaze towards the tall man who had drawn a plastic chair over to his bedside. He met Lorimer’s look, recognising the blue eyes that were regarding him with interest.

‘How’re you feeling?’

Lacking the ability to shrug a cool, indifferent shoulder, Flynn said, ‘A’right. S’pose.’

‘They looking after you OK?’

‘Aye,’ Flynn grinned suddenly. ‘Cannae complain. Nice bed, food when I want it. A’ the comforts of hame, right?’

‘I was wanting to ask you about that, Flynn. About home. Where exactly is it you come from? Originally, I mean.’

The smile died on the boy’s face. ‘Ach. Did I no’ tell yer other man? A Barnardo’s boy, that’s whit I wis. There’s nae originally aboot it.’

‘Left on somebody’s doorstep?’ Lorimer suggested with the ghost of a smile.

‘Aye, somethin’ like that. Look, gonnae jist leave it, eh? Ah havenae got a hame. Never had. There’s naebody waiting tae see me when I get oot o’ here.’

‘OK. Point taken. Anyway, I saw your surgeon on my way in. He says he’s very pleased with you. Says he expects you to make a full recovery. He told me the temporary paralysis was caused by shock to the spine. Maybe they’ll shift you into a different ward if they get short of beds.’

‘Oh, aye,’ Flynn replied, his eyes on the Simpsons but his heart beating that wee bit faster. ‘Tell you when I’m for the heave, did he?’ the boy asked, the question almost sticking in his throat.

‘Oh, a couple of weeks, he thinks. The fractures are mending nicely.’ Lorimer hesitated. Despite the Surgeon’s positive report, Flynn still looked a mess, the bruises yellowing across his face. ‘Depends if you’ve anywhere to go.’

The voices of Homer and Bart filled the room but Lorimer’s words seemed louder than the TV programme. Flynn continued to look towards the screen, deliberately ignoring this bearer of bad tidings. Sure, it was nice to know he’d be fit and all, but fit for what? And in this weather?

The detective cleared his throat. ‘Do you have anywhere you could stay? A friend’s place, maybe? Somewhere you’d be properly looked after?’

Flynn thought about Allan Seaton for a brief moment then dismissed the idea. Seaton’s pad was always loupin’ with druggies and nutters. He’d never get a minute’s peace. Flynn suddenly realised how vulnerable he felt. This injury to his neck had damaged more than flesh and bone; he’d lost his nerve under that white van.

‘Naw. There’s nowhere,’ he muttered.

Lorimer had suspected as much from his discussions with the social work department connected to the hospital. He’d spent time thinking over how to say what he wanted to say to this boy, wondering how he would react.

‘There’s a spare room at my place,’ Lorimer told him.

Flynn’s eyes swivelled round, trying to engage with Lorimer’s. Their expression held more doubt than surprise.

‘Ye serious?’

Lorimer nodded. ‘There’s just me at home right now. My wife’s working abroad for a while. We’ve got a spare room doing nothing. You could stay for a few weeks if you liked. How about it?’

Flynn turned back towards the television screen, obviously considering the detective’s offer. When he grinned, Lorimer cocked his head to one side, curious to know what the boy’s answer would be.

‘Aye, why no. Hiv ye got Sky TV?’

‘You’ve done what?’ Alistair Wilson slammed down his half empty coffee cup on Lorimer’s desk.

‘I’ve asked him to stay at my place.’

‘And did you clear this with Maggie?’

As soon as the words were out, Wilson wished them back. It was none of his business what Maggie Lorimer thought, after all.

‘No,’ his boss replied shortly, ‘I didn’t. Anyway, it’s just until the boy has somewhere else to go. The officer at the Hamish Allan Centre says they might be able to sort out a furnished flat for him. I’m sure he’ll be fixed up by Christmas. It’s still over a month away.’

Wilson shook his head. ‘You could be setting yourself up for a whole load of trouble.’

‘I don’t think so. He’s still pretty weak. He needs a bit of time and anyway…’ Lorimer tailed off. How could he explain the unspoken feeling of trust that had sprung up between himself and this street kid? Flynn had told them about his relationship with George Millar. He’d made it clear that he’d only been the drug courier, nothing more. There would be no charges brought against the boy, though. Lorimer had assured him of that. He was simply helping the police with their enquiries. He wasn’t willing to name sources, yet, and Lorimer hadn’t expected him to grass up any of his mates.

But he had hinted that he could tell Lorimer something else about the late Leader of The City of Glasgow orchestra. Maybe, just maybe, he knew something that could lead him to the missing violin.

‘D’you expect him to sing for his supper, then? Is that your game?’ Wilson’s tone was cynical, breaking Lorimer’s train of thought.

Lorimer ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look, I know this is unusual. And yes, perhaps he will tell me more, but that’s not the real reason I offered him a place to stay.’

Wilson looked troubled for a moment. Lorimer wasn’t known for being soft hearted but he suspected there was a genuine sense of caring behind the man’s decision to take the boy into his home.

‘There but for the Grace of God …?’ ‘Something like that,’ Lorimer mumbled.

‘I still think you’re mad,’ Wilson told him. ‘But it takes all sorts,’ he shrugged, getting up and heading for the door.

‘Oh,’ he added, turning back for a moment, ‘Betty’s bound to tell me that you’re a star. God knows if Maggie will agree, though.’ He was out of the door before Lorimer could reply.

The Chief Inspector swivelled his chair round towards the window. What Wilson had said was probably true. It was a bit mad to take in a stray like Flynn without even telling Maggie what he’d done. But was that part of the reason he’d invited the boy?

Was he trying to prove that the house was his home and his alone? Was it the action of a man who secretly believed his wife would never return? Was he trying to tell himself that he could do what the hell he liked? Lorimer shook his head as if trying to clear away all this introspection. Psychobabble was for the likes of Solomon Brightman.

‘No he’s no’,’ Sadie Dunlop protested. ‘He’s as normal as you an’ me!’

‘Well, what’s he doin’ takin’ a wee lad into his hame, then? Looks guy fishy tae me.’

‘Aye, well a lot of things look fishy tae you, Martha McKinlay. Ah’m telling ye, Lorimer’s straight.’