Dying of the Light (2 page)

On the other hand, and there always was another hand, Mrs Wright was a self-confessed streetwalker. She would not be too choosy, and perhaps there had indeed been a
misunderstanding. The accused’s version of events, it had to be accepted, was perfectly plausible and could account for everything, including the woman’s injuries.

But, she kept returning to it, it was Annie Wright whom she had believed. The prostitute’s fear, in the witness box, had been positively contagious. Watching her twisting and turning her poor, blotched hands, she herself had become apprehensive, on edge, afraid in fact. And nothing in the woman’s manner had suggested vengeance. It spoke far more eloquently of an unwillingness to participate in the proceedings, a clear reluctance to give evidence. In addition, the policewoman’s testimony about the victim’s shocked and distressed state immediately after the assault had seemed completely convincing. But again, that could be equally well explained away by the fight that McNiece spoke about. I’d be shocked if I’d been slapped in the face, however it happened, she thought. It was useless. She was going round and round in circles.

The discussion in the jury room was brief, hastened by the unspoken desire on everyone’s part to avoid, if at all possible, yet another unpalatable lunch courtesy of the Court Services. Yesterday’s macaroni sludge was still vivid in their memories. In any event, most of the jurors considered the case to be unprovable, as it amounted to no more than one person’s word against another’s.

However, to Mrs Bartholemew’s surprise, the scribbler boy argued passionately that the prostitute’s evidence should be believed, and tried to convince the others to accept, as he had, her account of her ordeal. In the face of increasingly voluble resistance from the other jurors, he pointed out her ill-concealed reluctance to play any part
in the trial. She must have known, he said, that a working girl’s version of events would be viewed with scepticism. She appeared intelligent. For her, this would be a poor way of getting revenge. In fact, he said, she had spoken out not in order to get even, but to put a rapist behind bars.

‘No,’ the man with the food-stained jacket observed laconically, ‘she just miscalculated. Plenty of females
better
than her have done just the same, son.’

At last the longed for Silk Cut. Annie Wright leant against the statue of David Hume, a traffic cone sitting
incongruously
on his sculpted head and banging against it with each gust of wind. As she slowly inhaled, she felt calmer, almost as if she had, in some intangible way, regained
control
of her life. Of tomorrow, at least. Well, she thought, I’ve done what they wanted. Done my sodding duty, for all the good it has done me.

She turned her head towards the courtroom to avoid the glare of headlights dazzling her, as a few homebound commuters processed down the Royal Mile. Suddenly she shivered, her teeth starting to chatter, her body chilled to the bone in the icy air. Hunching her shoulders, she pulled up the collar of her thin coat with her free hand as a noisy rabble, all high fives and raucous laughter, emerged from the High Court, jostling themselves exuberantly onto the pavement. A tin of lager was held aloft, followed by a chorus of cheers and the raising of exultant, clenched fists. One of the stragglers on the margins of the group accidentally backed into her.

‘Sorry, hen’, he said almost to himself, before, looking at her a second time, he realised he knew her and let out a wild whoop.

‘Well, I niver, it’s wee Annie hersel’. Hey, Tam the Bam!’, he screamed, ‘it’s her – ken, yer wham bam ma’am!’

From the centre of the excited mob Thomas McNiece elbowed his way towards her, an uneasy grin on his
glistening
face, and as he did so his followers grew quiet, silent, like hyenas watching for the kill. Just as he reached her, a tall, dark-haired policewoman approached, and the men immediately began to disperse, some shifting themselves towards St Giles and Parliament Square, others heading northwards towards the Castle.

‘I’m sorry we never secured a conviction, Annie,’ the policewoman said, coming up to the woman, her exhaled breath like white smoke in the wintry air.

‘Yeh, right,’ Annie Wright replied. ‘I stood up and wis counted, eh? So he’d niver be able tae rape anybody again.’ She laughed loudly. ‘An’ he’s oot, free! Oh, an’ wan ither thing, sergeant, he’ll want tae git me fer that an’ a’, he says as much already. So I’d better watch oot fer masel’, eh?’

Detective Sergeant Alice Rice was painfully aware that no words of hers, no truthful words at least, would be adequate. She had no comfort to offer. They both knew that justice had not been done and that a guilty man now walked free. But she could not bring herself to apologise for persuading the woman to complain. It would be
altogether
too hypocritical, because she would do the same again, tomorrow and the next day. And the day after that, too.

‘We’ll keep an eye out as well,’ she answered,
unpleasantly
conscious of the hollowness of her reassurance. McNiece had, after all, just routed them all. Made fools of them all.

A double-decker drew up at the stop on the North Bridge and the woman clambered in, glad to be back in the warmth and returning to some form of normality.
Taking
a seat at the back she pressed her face hard against the window pane, conscious of every vibration on her cheekbone as the vehicle juddered over the potholed road, finally squealing to a halt at the Balmoral, ready to cross Waterloo Place. Ignoring an amber light it trundled onwards, stopping and restarting endlessly in the
rush-hour
traffic, crawling slowly past the brutal architecture marring the west side of Leith Street as if the sight of it was something to savour. Pedestrians streamed endlessly along the pavements, catching the January sales, most weighed down by bulging carrier bags and all wrapped up against the biting cold.

At the first stop at the top of Leith Walk an old man, cap in hand, maundered unsteadily up the central aisle towards her, lurching onto her bench as the bus continued its erratic progress towards Portobello and her
destination
. Another abrupt halt and he fell against her shoulder, apologising the instant contact was made and righting himself to the best of his ability. And then, hesitantly, he began to talk to her, waiting for a response, nudging her into the usual, inconsequential, companionable banter that can help a journey pass. A daughter in Australia, a doctor no less, he boasted; and a son, fortunately close by in Port Seton. He’d spent Hogmanay there, the little of it he could remember anyway. And once he too had been a bus driver, doing the Haddington run.

The man seemed so kind, fatherly almost, that Annie Wright would have liked to have told him the truth about
her day, unburden herself of its painful reality, and in the telling somehow reduce its importance. But she could not bear to watch him recoil. To smash his innocent
illusions
. After all, she was not, as he probably imagined, just another middle-aged body returning from a day’s
shopping
in the town.

No harm, though, in escaping into make-believe. So, enjoying the sound of his cracked voice and ready laughter, she created a job for herself working as a school cleaner up South Clerk Street, and found that it was easy. She had been one, once, a lifetime ago. Together they exchanged anecdotes about the thoughtlessness of
children
and the litter trailed by them wherever they went. By the time the bus drew into Baltic Street little flakes of snow were dancing in the beams of its headlights, blown this way and that by the movement of passing vehicles. A few minutes later, smiling fondly, Annie stood up to get off and the old fellow squeezed her hand as she eased herself past his legs.

‘Tak’ care o’ yersel’, dearie,’ he said, giving her a wink.

The chill air on Seafield Road reminded Annie Wright where she was, and, more importantly, who and what she was. She started to walk, buffeted by blasts of a cutting wind, towards Pipe Street and home. A little figure, head hooded and bowed, stood leaning against the lamppost, bathed in a circle of golden light. Drawing parallel the woman stretched out her hand and felt it grasped by a cold, wet mitt.

‘Guess whit, mum?’ the high-pitched voice enquired.

‘Whit?’

‘I’ve got us a chinky an’ it’s in the oven, in the hoose!’

‘Diane,’ the woman replied wearily, ‘ye’re a star. Ma ain wee star.’

He pressed the flat surface of his knife onto the first yolk, noting as he did so that the two eggs had been perfectly fried. An opaque film covered both their
yellow
suns, and there were no signs of any wobble or slime on the white of either. Slicing the streaky tail off his first rasher of bacon he dipped it in the yolk, then speared a sliver of buttered toast and ate the tasty combination. Perfection. Nothing could beat a good high tea in front of the television on a cold winter’s evening. A loud roar drew his attention back to the screen and he watched entranced as Hartson dribbled the ball towards the Hibs goal, nutmegged the final defender and then flicked it effortlessly into the net past the helpless keeper. A goal! He looked at his watch. Only 8.30 and still another twenty minutes of the second half to go. Life was sweet indeed.

Intent on the game, he did not hear the phone
ringing
until his wife handed the receiver to him, whispering conspiratorially, ‘It’s Bill’. At the sound of the man’s name his heart sank. He knew only too well what the call would mean.

‘Where are they?’ David Chalmers asked dully.

‘Along by the bridge at Ma Aitken’s.’

‘How many?’

‘Four or five.’

‘OK. I’ll meet you at your gate in ten minutes.’

Thinking only of his wife and twin daughters, he bolted the remainder of his fry-up, no longer savouring the ritual of putting the pieces together, and gulped down his mug of tea. No time for the scones and honey. He’d have them later, when he got back. In the hallway, he picked up his
olive green anorak and set off at a brisk pace towards Claremont Park and ‘Jordan’.