The Cutting Room (32 page)

and is `nobody’s fool’. Young Drummond, ex-art-school boy,

who still wears paint-stained jumpers, two brown, one green.

Who has a shop called `21st Century Toy’ selling: Spanish

dolls, sunburst clocks, valve radios, flying ducks, shellac

records, prints of green ladies and crying boys, kidney-shaped tables and balsawood chairs. Young Drummond, with an

encyclopaedic knowledge of television from 1965 to 1979, the records of Dusty Springfield, Meccano, military badges, the

Beatles, Oor Wullie and The Broons. Young Drummond, who

wishes he was born in another age. Who wishes he didn’t have to grow up and tries hard not to. Who glimpses Pablo Picasso in 1950s tableware and God in Bakelite. Young Drummond,

famous in charity shops fi-om—here to Govan. Who sells irony to thirty-somethings. Young Drummond, who cannot make a

bid without a dozen hands rising in imitation; the best form of flattery. Young Drummond, who stays in his shop until ten

every night, then retires to his cluttered bedsit, climbs into his single bed alone and dreams he is a fisherman netting a mermaid from a sea of cod. Young Drummond searched

boxes of sundries, eye lingering here and there, laying false trails for his admirers.

Rab the shaker leant towards his new paramour and, in a

voice as intimate as a late night DJ’s, expounded the design virtues of the 1930s cruet balanced in his hand. He tilted it this way and that, showing her the maker’s mark, comparing it to

a grand ocean liner; salt starboard, pepper port. He conjured the jazz age: flappers dancing on the wing of a plane, cocaine in silver boxes, cocktails at Maxim’s, dinner at the Ritz, bright young things dizzy with the threat of war. An aroma of

romance from the simplest of spices. The woman at his side

swooned. Later she will buy the cruet as a love gift and Rab will convey it to the salerooms of London. Before or after he breaks her heart? It depends how broke he is. How far he has stretched the elastic of her affection. He introduced his

companion and I smiled, shaking her hand, as if I had not

lost count of his conquests, who are always left enlightened in the arts of love and lighter in the bank.

`Rab,’ I whispered, `is this the one??

‘Ach, you ken me, Rilke. I need two on the go because

they always dump me.’

`Aye, Rab, because you always two-time them.’

Some, though, would pay double to have him back, just for

one night.

`We fucked you right up the arse, bent your lot over and gave them a right good shafting.’

`Ach, you were jammy, luck, pure luck. What about last

time? Who took it up the arse then, eh? Our boys rammed

you, really rammed it right in. You were truly fucked, my

man.

I turned to see who the speakers were. Two Barras dealers,

Big Vince and Davie B, crouched half under the bric-abrac

table, sorting through the cartons of mixed lots stored

beneath. Davie B noticed me and began to haul himself to

his feet using the table for support. Ornaments and glassware trembled. I clenched my teeth as he navigated his beer belly free of collision.

`Mr Rilke, big sale the day.’

`Not bad.’

`Did you catch the match last night?

The penny dropped. `No, too busy getting this thegether.’

`You missed yourself. I was just saying to Vince here, we

really shafted him.’

Vince broke in, `Aye and I was telling him it’s only a

fortnight since Celtic fucked Rangers in the Old Firm game.

First of the season and we fucking screwed you.’

Faint, in my head, a distant bell rang, but it was too faint, too far away. I shook their hands, wished them well and

moved on, wondering if they greeted orgasm with a shout of

`Goal l ,

Rose smiled from across the room, puckered her red lips,

set her hand as a runway and blew me a kiss. She put her arm round a man’s shoulders and nodded in my direction. The

man’s head turned and I saw Les.

I scanned the congregation from the rostrum, charting the

crowd, identifying faces, mapping who stood where. There

had been no time to discover the purpose of Les’s visit. He

and Rose had been laughing together like old friends, but

when I crossed the room to greet him, his face had closed.

Jenson’s ring hard-faced, the Irishmen.

Rose whispered in my ear, `This is going to be the best

ever. After last week Jenson is going to run the Irish

sky-high and it doesn’t matter to us who gets the stuff

because they both pay in cash.’

I ignored her and continued my preparation. Les had said,

`We need to talk.’

But Rose had taken me by the arm. `Sorry, Les, he’s mine

for the next few hours. You can have him after the sale.’ And she hustled me towards the podium, calling over her shoulder at him to `Have some wine.’

He’d looked exasperated. `Look, I’ll meet you here after

you finish.’ He headed towards the exit. `Don’t forget, and if I’m late wait for me. It’s important.’

I tried to remember if Les had ever told me anything was

important before. He had, but I didn’t think he was coming

back to remind me always to cleanse, tone and moisturise. I

tried to focus on the sale. A list of four hundred lots, each with brief description and estimate price, lay on the lectern before me. Jimmy James stood in place, shaking his head at

life. I brought the hammer down, three sharp blows, hard

enough to kill a man.

`Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Bowery Auction for

today’s sale of fine art and collectables. Viewing is now over. I must remind those of you who have not already done so to

register for a paddle number. Lot number one is an exceptionally fine example of Scottish craftsmanship …’

Jimmy James grudgingly indicated the lot: `This one

here.’

And we were under way.

There was a thought running through my mind, a thought I

couldn’t get hold of, slipping in and out of my consciousness, slithering between the bids.

One hundred, An idea …

One hundred and twenty,

Rose nudged my arm, indicating a new bidder. One forty,

One sixty,

TWO HUNDRED …Something I had missed … The bidding faltered. I scanned the room …

That’s two hundred pounds for this lovely … It

was bothering me …Something about …Two hun dred

pounds, ladies and gents …Two hundred pounds …time …

Rose nudged me again. `Keep your mind on the bloody job.’

And the thought went.

The Reckoning

THE SALE WAS OVER. The last dealer had shuffled from the

building, last carrier manhandled his load from the goods lift into the street. Rose and I were alone with hulks of furniture too awkward to move until later, and a lot of money.

In Gilmartin’s the after-sale drinking would be starting,

they’d be pushing the tables together, drawing up chairs,

buying rounds, telling tall tales of treasures bought and sold.

They’d be washing off the week in pints and nips, sluicing

away their troubles. I wished I was with them.

Rose locked the door, turned down the lamps and we

retired to the office, an oasis of light in the afternoon gloom.

She looked at me.

`Are you sure about this? Still time to back,-out and no hard feelings.’

But she was wrong. The die had been cast and there was no

going back.

`I’m sure.’

She eased the cash drawer free and tipped its contents onto

the desk.

`Jesus,’ she whispered, `it’s a lot.’

And so it was. The scuffed blues, browns, pinks and

purples of bank notes splayed across the table. English and

Irish mixing with Scottish in happy union. We sat for a

minute, staring at it. Neither of us suggested a drink. Then we set to, counting in silence, folding fives into bundles of fifty, tens into hundreds, twenties into five hundreds and fifties into Brands. Our hands grew black with the reckoning.

After a while Rose asked, `What are you going to do with

your share??

‘I don’t know. Sit tight, I suppose.’

`Me too.’

She caught my eye and we smiled conspiratorially, each

knowing the other for a liar. I wondered what glossy magazine dreams floated in her head. Clothes and holidays, delightful objets, perfumed, sunny days.

`You’ve not to become an alcoholic, mind.’

She laughed. `Well, if I do I suppose I can afford the Priory now.

We drifted back into silence. I knew what I was going to do

with my share. I was going away. I’d had forty-three years of grey skies and dreich days. One risk begets another. I would go where the sky was blue and I was going to ask Derek to

come with me. We had almost finished when there was a

rattle at the door.

`Christ!’ I toppled a pile of notes.

Rose looked at her watch. `That must be Jim.’

`Jim? Rose, Jim’s a policeman. What’s he doing here while

we’re committing larceny and fraud?

`I know, but he said he’d come and get me after the sale, I got all flustered and didn’t know how to put him off. Anyway, he’s early. I thought we’d be finished by the time he got here.’

`Well, get rid of him.’ We were talking in hissed whispers.

`Tell him I’ll walk you round to Gilmartin’s after we’ve

locked up.’

`He’ll think it strange. He’ll wonder why I’m not just

letting him in.’

`Make an excuse.’

`Like what?’

`I don’t know. Tell him your period’s started.’

She gave me a look. I shrugged. My mobile started to ring

and the door rattled again. Rose muttered, `Oh for God’s

sake!’ and hurried from the office into the darkened saleroom.

The display panel on my phone showed a number I didn’t

recognise. I laid my jacket carefully over the money, then,

instead of pressing the Off button as I’d intended, answered the call.

`Rilke?’ Derek’s voice triggered the usual somersaults in

my stomach. `Is it all right to talk?’

`Sure.’ I could be hanging from a cliff by my fingernails and I would still reach out to take a call from him. `It’ll have to be quick, though. I’m still at work. Everything okay? No visits from the police?’

`Nothing so far. AnneMarie phoned. She said she’d been

trying to get you all day.’

I could hear Rose stomping to the door.

`Aye, it’s a sale day. We pull the plugs on all the phones

while the auction’s on. What did she want?’

`She asked me to give you a message. She said she’s getting

a visit from someone you’d like to meet.’

`Who?

`She didn’t say.’

Dread crept over me, an impossible foreboding. `Repeat

what she said, word for word.’

`She just said, “Tell Rilke that guy we were talking about is coming round at four thirty this afternoon. It’ll be a chance for them to meet.”’

The thought that had slipped away from me during the sale

came back. It was in the timing. AnneMarie had told me

McKindless visited her on the day of the Old Firm game. Rab

said the first game of the season was a fortnight ago, a week after McKindless’s death.

`He’s not dead. Sweet Jesus,’ I whispered, remembering

AnneMarie’s ordeal, the temptation she had felt to give

herself up to the knife, her wish for revenge I cursed her

stupidity and mine. My watch showed four fifteen. Rose was

pulling back the bolts, fumbling with her keys, cursing at the rattling door as she muddled key and lock, shouting, `All

right, keep your hair on!’ Anderson was impatient.

`Rilke, are you still there?’ asked Derek.

`Ring Chris and get over to AnneMarie’s as fast as you can.

I’ll call the police and meet you there.’ My heart sounded loud in my ears, beating out the seconds, a clock close to midnight.

The boy’s voice reflected my panic. `What is it?’

There was a sound in the hallway, a wounded whimper. I

whispered, `Hold on.’ Dropped the phone onto the chair and

looked up. What happened next is frozen in my mind like a

photograph. Rose came first, her lips arterial red against the sudden white of her face. Confusion rendered me stupid. My

first thought was, Why is she walking like that? Rose’s assured stalk was gone. She faltered into the room. There were two

men with her. Men without faces. One of them was helping her.

Holding her up. Holding her back. Holding her arm twisted

behind her back. Their features were blacked off, concealed behind balaclavas. My muscles tensed, ready for attack, but the gun each man held in his hand stayed me. I raised my hands and came round from behind the desk, saying, `Whatever you want, just let her go.’

`The money.’ The intruder’s voice sounded loud after our

silence and whispers.

`It’s yours. Just let her go, then you can have it.’

Spittle spluttered from his lips. `We’re not fucking around.

Give us the fucking money.’

He put his gun to Rose’s temple, drawing his other arm

around her neck, lifting her from the ground. Her eyes rolled in her head, feet scrabbled like a hanging man’s.

`Okay, anything you want, just don’t hurt her.’

The second man patted me down, taking the bundle of keys

from my pocket.

`Don’t get excited, pal.’

He shoved a hold-all at me. I began to sweep cash into the

bag. Rose was set on her feet again.