and Joe ran along the pitch shouting tactics, encouragement – and taunts – when necessary. I’d seen managers and coaches receive touchline bans for less in the real world, but the officials here turned a deaf ear in spite of opposition protests. I wondered if Connie knew what was going on. She seemed oblivious, running herself ragged chasing a dirty ball on a muddy field; the enjoyment she was obviously getting was a mystery to me.
‘Joe’s got the trike,’ Lavender said, sidling up to me with the last of the coffee in the top of the thermos flask to warm my frozen fingers. ‘Connie and Joe are going Christmas shopping. I wish I’d thought of that … I still don’t know what to get her. I want it to be special – the first time that she really has everyone around her.’
I was always touched by the way Lavender had adopted my family as her own. Even Connie, the ‘newest’ member, was to be her flower girl.
Kailash had kept the existence of my half-sister Connie (then at boarding school in Switzerland) in the dark until she was sure that she and I had a chance of a relationship. I think she was right to do that really – apparently, most mother and adult-child reunions don’t have fairytale endings. Our bond is not one you’d find in a Disney movie but we rub along – although sometimes it feels more like grating. When Connie was finally brought into the picture, it actually made things easier. I had more of a family now than I’d ever dreamed of, even when I still thought that my adopted parent Mary McLennan was my birth mother and Kailash Coutts was just another pain-in-the-arse client I had to defend.
Joe edged nearer to us as his eyes scanned the skyline. In the distance, the hill of Arthur’s Seat was barely visible because of the low-lying cloud. He huddled into us close before pulling a rolled-up newspaper from his pocket. ‘Brodie, it’s time to stop being so daft,’ he said. I raised my eyebrow – in my mind, he was the one to blame and I most certainly hadn’t been in on any daftness. ‘Seriously, Brodie, there’s things going on that … well, things just don’t feel right.’ If I’d expected an emotional outpouring, I was disappointed. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, going back to the newspaper. It was the afternoon edition of the one we’d discussed in the office; the dead girl stared out at us from the front page, demanding justice.
‘Do you ever have the feeling you’re being watched?’ Joe asked, staring over his shoulder.
‘Joe – you might have red hair but you’re not the Ripper’s type: your family jewels rule you out,’ I replied.
‘I’m glad you remember, Brodie, but I wasn’t talking about myself. I meant you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever feel you’re being watched?’ he asked again. His face was weary and I no longer wanted to laugh. A cold trickle of sweat dribbled down my spine.
A primeval sense of wariness had me on edge. Joe was still scanning the horizon, and he wasn’t looking at the weather. I knew better than to laugh at him or dismiss his instincts. He held on to my arms, pinning them down at my side. The cold wind carried his scent to me and, as always, I cursed myself for responding. He noticed me involuntarily pressing up against him but said nothing. If I needed any convincing he was serious, that was it.
Pride comes before a fall, I know, but I shrugged him off. I didn’t know how to handle the new Glasgow Joe, the one who could resist me. I stomped round to the other side of the pitch; I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know Joe was watching me.
My smile fell.
Joe wasn’t staring at me – he was scouting the Meadows.
Hunting for the bogeyman.
Cumberland Street, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 12.30 a.m.
The point of the stiletto blade nicked the underside of my chin. A dewdrop of blood dribbled down my neck. This couldn’t be happening. Please God, don’t let this be happening. Pure panic controlled my body. I wanted to scream but I was shamefully afraid. The knife meandered down my throat, slicing open the cosy grey tee shirt I loved to sleep in. It had once, in happier times, belonged to Joe. Darkness hid the face of my torturer but I knew who it was, and he wanted me dead.
The pain was slicing through me as he traced spirals with the blade. Opening my mouth wide to scream, a disappointing squeak came out. Gripping handfuls of the sheet, I tried to push myself up the bed. Perhaps if I could sit up, I’d be able to fight back. He second-guessed me and dug the point of the blade into my carotid artery. It danced as my pulse raced. I imagined a slow smile crossing his face. How had he gained entry? I’d recently been robbed and I’d installed new security; they promised me I was as safe as the Bank of Scotland.
I didn’t believe them and I hadn’t shared their faith. The satisfaction of being right did nothing for me. I-told-you-so doesn’t cut it when you’re staring death in the face. I refused to expire pitifully in silence so I shouted for the first person I could think of through the fear – Joe. I knew he wouldn’t make it in time but just saying his name made me feel better. At least I’d found the strength to call on him, I reflected as his name rang out through my bedroom. Then my reality shifted. I woke up. Sweat had drenched the tee shirt but otherwise it was undamaged; just another horrible dream and a lingering feeling that the man I needed wasn’t there.
I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and my toes landed in leftover pizza. The empty bottles of lager showed me just how much punishment I’d inflicted on my poor body – but I’d live. The phone was ringing in the hall. In an effort to get a good night’s sleep, I’d disconnected the one on the bedside table. Last night had obviously been a night of great decisions. I swore under my breath and trampled on the mound of clothes lying in a heap on the floor, smearing tomato sauce and cold mozzarella cheese on the LBD I’d bought last week from Harvey Nicks. Three hundred and fifty pounds I’d paid in the pre-Xmas sale, and now it looked like a window rag. The phone had stopped ringing. I surveyed the bombsite that was my room. My flatmate (and assistant) Louisa had called me Scrooge and then insisted on setting up a fibre-optic Christmas tree; its garish colours threw a macabre glow on the scene and didn’t add anything remotely positive.
Stumbling across to the dressing table I picked up a photograph. Why hadn’t I just thrown it out? The frame was a plastic snow dome; in the centre of the snowstorm Glasgow Joe had a huge grin on his face as he held me in a bear hug. He smiled like a prizewinner. We were on top of the Empire State building – I should have guessed what was coming when he took me there seven months ago. Bizarrely, Glasgow Joe adores the film Sleepless in Seattle.
Naturally, he’d taken me there to propose.
Again.
Being reasonably sane, I said no – on reflection, I did more than just say ‘no’. My exact reply went something along the lines of ‘when Hell freezes over.’ On the picture, I traced the contours of his face with my finger. It was the closest I had intended to get to the real thing, no matter how much Lavender pushed and shoved. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Joe, or even, God help me, not love him in that way. There were bigger problems this time – Joe wanted a baby. If there was one thing I knew, it was that there was bad blood in me, and that bloodline needed to stop when my candle snuffed.
It wasn’t just the need for a baby that had changed him in the past year or so. Joe’s paternal streak had been manageable until he met Connie – then he’d fallen hook, line and sinker. Nothing but the best for Connie. He was reliving our childhood, except that now he had money. Eddie and Joe had stepped
