Denise Mina - The Dead Hour

Trying to listen to the fuck-wit callers on the radio, down with this and up with that, he lowered the jack on the car slowly, bringing the front wheels back to the floor and pulling the jack out from under it. A man with a Birmingham accent was railing against the south of England inflicting the Thatcher government on the rest of the country for a second term as Bernie picked up his spanners and began to wipe the oil off them. Old news.

Bernie walked over to the table and crouched down to open the top drawer of his toolbox. He pulled it out, sat the spanners in place, and shoved it back. It didn’t close. He opened it again, checking along the lip to see if anything was sticking out but nothing was. He tried shoving it back in but again it stuck out half an inch, just far enough for him to be able to see inside. Something was stuck around the back.

Crouched by the side of the table, Bernie waddled sideways and saw the corner of the clear plastic sheeting. He smiled, thinking it was food, something he could pick the mold off of that would keep him going for another hour or so. He pinched the plastic corner between two fingers and pulled. It was heavy and bigger than a sandwich wrapper. He pulled and it kept coming until he had to reach blindly with both hands and pull it out. It was the size of a small cushion, square and heavy.

The clear plastic had been folded over many times, the inside obscured by white dust, but the much used silver duct tape, losing its adhesiveness, had rolled off a slit in the front when he lifted it and Bernie knew what was inside. White powder spilled out into a little pile on the floor. Panicked, Bernie found his breath stuck in his throat like a fish bone. He couldn’t exhale.

This was why Kate was so, so sorry. This was why she loved him. Stealing a car, inadvertently getting Vhari murdered, they were minor sins in comparison to this.

The sharp morning wind hurtled across George Square, eddying around monuments to the forgotten heroes of forgotten wars. It was the coldest place in the city center. The brisk wind gathered speed across the wide open plain, pushing people into side streets.

Paddy walked past the giant post office building and crossed over to the square, in front of the turreted City Chambers, around the imposing white cenotaph, and saw them: a small gathering of people dressed in white with placards at the far end of the square. Some wore white sweaters or overcoats, one a thin anorak. They were huddled together lighting small, sputtering candles with a Bic, guarding the flames carefully with their hands and bodies and coats.

She had eaten a whole bag of Lemon Bonbons on the way here, buying them as a treat for her mum, from the sweet shop at the station. She had one bonbon, just for a taste, and then another and then another one after that, and again and again until the bag was obviously half empty and she either had to throw them away or eat them all and buy another bag. Her teeth were coated in sugar, squeaking from the bicarbonate in the sherbet.

Queasy with glucose and guilt, she approached across the square and spotted a familiar green sports jacket hovering in front of the pristine line, breaking it up. It was JT, notebook in hand, with his head tilted to the side, a stance that always denoted heavy questioning. He’d heard about Thillingly and beaten her to it. She stopped, sighing with defeat, shutting her eyes. The wind brushed her hair from her ear and suddenly Burns was nuzzling into her neck, his hot breath damp on her skin. She gave a pleasured shiver at the memory.

Sex had always been a bewildering fumble that she got distracted from but never lost in. She had a moment in every sexual encounter when she was lost in everyday considerations: where she had left her house keys, would her diet work, should she get her hair cut. But not this time. It was because she had no respect for Burns. She smiled and opened her eyes, finding herself flushed, remembering where she was and what she was meant to be doing here.

The green sports jacket moved along the line to a tall woman. Cursing, she walked up to JT and stood at his elbow, listening in as unobtrusively as she could.

He was quizzing a tall woman with an aristocratic nose and thick, lush gray hair pulled back and up into a leather clasp.

“For the release of Nelson Mandela.” Her accent was soft and English but authoritative somehow, as if she was used to public speaking. “He’s a lawyer who’s been imprisoned in South Africa -”

“For starting a violent uprising.” JT spoke quickly as he always did when he was being confrontational. “Some people would say you’re supporting violent criminals. What would you say to those people?”

“Well,” the woman replied, smiling uncomfortably, “Amnesty’re not supporting his release as a prisoner of conscience. We’re arguing for his right to a fair trial.”

JT’s pencil hovered idly over the page. He glanced up, waiting for her to say something outrageous.

“You ought to write that down,” said the woman. “That’s an important point.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remember it. There are people who say he’s the head of the South African equivalent of the IRA. What would you say to those people?”

Paddy stood behind him and listened to him wittering. He wasn’t asking about Thillingly at all and she wondered what the hell he was doing here. Amnesty held their candlelit vigil in George Square every Saturday, each week for a different person. Mandela was a controversial choice because he had supported an armed struggle after the Sharpeville massacre.

“Stuck for a story?” she asked.

JT turned and looked at her suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you know, I heard they were supporting Nelson Mandela this week. Just wanted to ask them about it.”

“Yeah, looking for something to dazzle Ramage with? Well, you’ve missed your chance with this baby.” JT smiled smugly. “I’ve just done it. And now I’m going back to write it up.” He snapped his notebook shut and walked away. Paddy watched him saunter across the square, shaking her head slowly, staying disappointed in case he looked back.

The Amnesty supporters formed a solemn semicircle around two posters: one the Amnesty sign and the other a typewritten summary of Mandela’s case below a slightly blurred photograph of him as an earnest young man, his Afro in a side parting. Above it, broken Letroset letters in purple felt pen read 20 YEARS WITHOUT A TRIAL.

Paddy stamped her feet against the freezing cold. The protesters looked at her, distrustful, avoiding eye contact because she knew JT.

“Look, um…” She stepped back, keen to differentiate herself from bombastic JT. “I don’t know how to approach this. I’m a very junior, not an important reporter like him”-she thumbed after JT-“but I wanted to ask you about a man called Mark Thillingly.”

The line rippled, disconcerted. A man at the far end shuffled his feet; someone coughed. A delicate girl in the middle of the lineup sobbed suddenly, covering her face. Her neighbor put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest, holding the back of her head as she convulsed into the cables of his white Aran knit. He looked accusingly at her.

“Mark was our friend.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Paddy. “Please, I don’t want to upset anyone.”

The girl sobbed afresh, noisily gulping air. Paddy noted the gray-haired woman roll her eyes, so she turned and spoke to her instead. “I do know that Mark was a good man.”

The woman took Paddy by the elbow, pulling her aside. “Mark was a good man, you’re right. He was very committed.” She nodded back to the sobbing girl. “Natasha hardly knew him but she enjoys any drama to the hilt.”