Ken McClure: Trauma

“For the benefit of the others,” Bella said, “We all heard about these bastards at the cemetery and what they did. I hope they catch them and cut their balls off. A bairn! I ask you. A bairn!”

There were murmurs of outrage and McKirrop nodded.

“You were very brave trying to stop them,” crooned Bella.

Flynn snorted.

“Never mind him!” snapped Bella, reverting to her bark. “He’s just jealous. If it had been him he would have slid all the way out the cemetery on a trail of his own shite!”

McKirrop and the four others in the group smiled as Flynn scowled and Bella stared him out.

“Did they hurt you bad?” Bella asked McKirrop, her voice changing again to solicitous concern.

“They broke some ribs,” replied McKirrop, opening his shirt front to expose his bandages.

“Bastards,” murmured Bella. “Has no one got a drink for this man?” she asked loudly.

“It’s all right; I’ve got some here Bella,” said McKirrop. He brought out the Bulgarian wine and handed it to her. “Have a drink. Help yourself.”

Bella smiled and said, “You deserve better after what you’ve been through.” She turned round and barked, “Figgy! The gin!”

A small, emaciated figure, huddling inside a greasy anorak with matted nylon fur round its collar, came scurrying over. He must have been in his forties but still had the features of a little boy despite the jaundiced complexion. His ears stuck out from his head and he was wearing a grin which exposed bad teeth and reminded McKirrop of a chimpanzee, anxious to show the pack leader he was perfectly content to be submissive. He handed a Gordon’s gin bottle to McKirrop without changing the grin. “Go on,” said Bella. “It’s not often one of us becomes a hero.”

McKirrop needed no second bidding. He took a large gulp of the gin and revelled in the fire in his throat. “Christ! That’s better,” he exclaimed.

“Take another,” said Bella, who had opened the wine and was helping herself. McKirrop took one more gulp and handed the bottle back to Figgy who scurried off with it back to his place.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Bella. “You could sell your story to the newspapers. Lots of people are into devil worship these days. They’ll probably pay you a fortune.”

“Do you think so?”

“I’m surprised they’ve not been after you already,” said Bella.

“I signed myself out of hospital,” said McKirrop thoughtfully.

“Then that’s why,” said Bella triumphantly. “They’re probably all looking for you right now.”

“You could be right,” agreed McKirrop, warming to the idea. “We could all be on the brandy before the end of the week.”

“That’s right, John boy,” said Bella. “You won’t forget your friends, will you?”

McKirrop saw the look in Bella’s eyes and knew that she was wondering about his absence in the last two weeks.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” muttered Flynn sourly.

“You shut up,” snapped Bella. Then, changing the subject, “Christ, I’m starving. Who’s got money?”

McKirrop brought out what little change he had from the tenner.

Bella looked over her shoulder and said, “Come on you bastards, what have you got?”

A silent procession brought offerings to Bella. She counted the total and announced, “Enough for a couple of fish suppers here. Figgy! You go down the chippy and get them. Clark, you go with him. Make sure he doesn’t piss off with the geld.”

Figgy and Clark went off to get the food, leaving the others to pass round the Bulgarian wine. The man sitting beside Flynn refused his turn with a jerky shake of the head when Flynn handed it to him. The others looked at him questioningly.

“He’s going to have one of his fits,” Bella warned.

At almost the same instant the man started to tremble all over. At first it was a moderate tremor but it rapidly increased in magnitude until all his limbs were jerking and, balance lost, he fell from the wall to the towpath. “Get something between his teeth!” said McKirrop, searching through his pockets for anything that might do. He couldn’t find anything. Bella looked about her without any real sense of urgency. “Leave him,” she said. “He’ll be fine. He always is.”

McKirrop tried to get a grip on the man to restrain him, but he was thrashing around so much that it was dangerous to get too near. As the fit started to subside he could see a trickle of blood flow down over the man’s chin. “He’s bitten through his tongue,” he said. No one replied.

“There, there love,” said Bella as the man came round. “You’ll be all right in a minute.” She spoke with so little concern that she might have read it from the back of a sauce bottle.

The man was helped up by two of the others and took his place on the wall again. He spat out blood intermittently.

“Where are those bastards with the grub?” complained Bella. “They’ve had time to go to bloody Glasgow for it.”

“Here they are now,” said McKirrop as he saw a figure appear at the top of the steps.

“That’s not Figgy,” said Bella as the figure started to descend slowly.

McKirrop could see that she was right. There wasn’t much light but the man coming down the steps was alone and he was too tall and erect to be either Figgy or Clark. The group fell to silence as the stranger approached.

“I wonder if you could help me,” said the cultured voice. “I’m looking for John McKirrop.”

McKirrop was about to say something when Bella dug him in the ribs. “Depends,” she said.

“On what?” asked the stranger evenly.

“On how much it’s worth to you,” said Bella.

The man reached into an inside pocket and brought out his wallet. He brought out a fiver and handed it to Bella saying, “I really would be most grateful.”

Bella snatched at the note and pushed it down between her breasts. She turned to McKirrop. “This is him here!” she announced with a triumphant cackle.

The stranger smiled weakly and looked at McKirrop. “You’re John McKirrop?”

McKirrop was suspicious. There was something about the stranger he didn’t like, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was simply the fact that the man was well dressed and sober. He had all the trappings of success about him — not that he seemed overbearing, or even patronising at the moment. But then, he wanted something. He was smiling and spoke politely but there was a look in his eyes that said he was playing a part.

“What if I am? Who wants to know?”

“My name is Rothwell. I’m a journalist.”

Bella broke out in a huge beam. “I told you, didn’t I?” she said to McKirrop and then to the others, “Didn’t I just tell him?”

There was a chorus of acquiescence.

“I wonder if I might have a private word with you?”

“Don’t see why not,” said McKirrop. We could go for a bit of a walk if you like.

“You’ll miss your tea,” protested Bella. “Here’s Figgy.”

McKirrop watched as Figgy and Clark arrived back with the hot food. They handed the newspaper wrapped parcel over to Bella to share out.

Rothwell watched for a moment before saying, “I have a suggestion to make. You haven’t really got enough there for all of you. Why don’t you let me buy you some more? You chaps could go for it while I talk to John?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Bella. “Maybe you could chuck in a few pickled onions?”

“Anything you want,” said Rothwell, taking out his wallet again. He handed over three fivers to Bella and turned his attention back to McKirrop. “Shall we...?”

McKirrop and Rothwell walked slowly along the towpath together, neither saying anything until they were well away from the group. Eventually Rothwell said, “I’ll come straight to the point, Mr McKirrop. My readers want to know everything about what you saw in the cemetery last night.”