White Rage (10 page)

Bharat Gupta walked from the room, leaving the door open. Perlman saw him move to the stairs, his hand pressed flat to the wooden rail as he climbed. His step was slow and heavy.

Dev Gupta asked, ‘Anything else I can do for you?'

‘Not at the moment,' Scullion said. ‘We'll be in touch.'

Gupta led them to the front door. Perlman could hear only the sound of the woman still weeping in another room. He followed Scullion down the path to the street. When they reached the gate Perlman paused. Gupta, Gupta: why did the name come back to prick him like this? He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an apple, crunched into it.

‘I didn't see you pilfer that,' Scullion said.

‘Sleight of hand,' Perlman answered. ‘I was dying of hunger.'

Scullion gazed back at the house. ‘What do you think?'

‘Indra was all work and no play.'

‘Is anybody that cut and dried?'

‘Look at me,' Perlman said. ‘Ever see me having fun?'

Scullion smiled and walked to his car. Perlman devoured the apple and tossed the core into a clump of shrubbery. He sat in the passenger seat and shut his eyes and listened to the faint hum of the Citroën.

He opened his eyes. ‘Gupta,' he said.

‘Do you know the name?' Scullion asked.

Perlman said, ‘I might be having one of those rare moments of insight. I think I'll call Terry Bogan in Partick.'

‘Why?'

Perlman fished his mobile out of his pocket. ‘Check on something.'

‘Check on what? You know, you can be bloody irritating at times, Perlman. You're secretive, furtive, unforthcoming.'

‘Now tell me my bad points.'

Perlman punched in the number of the Strathclyde Police Office in Partick and picked a sliver of apple from his teeth while he waited for a reply.

Detective-Sergeant Terry Bogan, who'd joined the Force the same year as Perlman, came on the line.

‘It's your favourite Jew here,' Perlman said.

‘And how can humble Terry Bogan be of any help to the great Perlman?'

‘This jumper you had? What's the story?'

‘An odd one,' Bogan said. He had a growl of a voice, like pebbles rattling inside a pewter jar.

‘Can you meet me at your usual place? Fifteen minutes?'

‘Can do.'

Perlman cut the connection and watched the dark expanse of Queen's Park slip past. He lit a cigarette and Scullion, devout non-smoker, rolled down his window. The night air was cold.

‘Explain,' Scullion said.

‘It might be nothing.'

‘Explain it anyway.'

11

At 9.20 p.m. a man called Jachay Ochoba stepped from Hillhead Underground station. In Byres Road he buttoned his overcoat to the neck. Even on the
hottest
day in this city, he was cold: a man couldn't get warm in this place. Then you weighed such discomfort against the uncertain political and economic situation of your homeland, and you decided that cold and wet were preferable, ice and snow and blizzards all godsends.

Byres Road was crowded as always. The people who drifted past bright restaurants and shops were mainly young. Many were students, like himself. He thought of the 5000-word essay he had to turn in to Professor Bain. He'd only completed half of it. It was called
British Imperialism: why did it fail?
In brutal language the answer was simple: the Brits fucked the natives over every chance they got. They still did. Of course, one couldn't render an essay that way and ever expect to graduate, but that was the gist of Ochoba's approach.

He was going to meet Helen; his second date with her. He'd encountered her at a Getting to Know You party in the Student Union. She was studying economics. Nice girl, pretty, a little on the shy side. She had a sly sense of humour. She wore her thick black hair centre-parted; she had two clasps in the shapes of butterflies on either side of the parting. He fantasized that they'd fall in love and she'd become his wife one day. They'd emigrate. Australia. New Zealand. They'd have kids. Dreams sustained him.

He took a right turn into Ashton Lane. He had an impulse to check the Grosvenor, see what movie was playing. He might ask Helen to a film. He enjoyed films, especially American ones, where the love interest always ended well. If you believed such movies, couples in America lived happily ever after.

Ashton Lane was crowded with boisterous young people. He reached the entrance to the cinema and studied the poster: a revival, a James Mason and Judy Garland movie,
A Star is Born
. He'd seen it years ago. Helen might like it. He was jostled by two or three people whose faces he didn't see. He knew it was best to keep your head down and carry on walking, because sometimes if you caught the eye of people looking for trouble it only made things worse.

Somebody tugged sharply on his sleeve. He was spun halfway round. He felt a terrible stinging sensation in his ribs, and he wondered if he'd been punched, but it wasn't like that. He boxed a little as a middleweight, he knew what a punch felt like. He gasped, and slammed the palm of his hand to the area of pain. His fingers were wet. He heard a woman scream. He didn't see her face. He didn't have the strength to stay upright. He went down on his knees. The woman screamed again. Somebody said
you okay there you okay jim, haud on we'll get an ambulance
. The words came from a far place.

He lay flat on his back and looked at the sky and thought of Helen waiting for him and checking her watch and wondering where he was. Maybe in a few minutes, if he could get some treatment, he'd be okay, he'd meet Helen, and he'd say, you will not believe what happened to me on my way here. Somebody gripped his hand and said
just wait just hang in there big fella we're getting an ambulance
and he imagined speeding through the streets of the city listening to sirens.

I'll be okay.

Hang in there, big fella
.

Helen sat in the Tinderbox and drank cappuccino. Maybe Jachay – or Jay as she called him – had been delayed. Maybe he'd decided not to come. He wants nothing to do with me, she thought, only he is too nice to say it to my face. Or too cowardly. Or just a man, crude and cruel and selfish. The fact was, he hadn't turned up. Forty minutes late.

He'd seemed so kind, so genuine, at the Student Union. You cannot tell the inside from the outside, she thought. Men were like cards; they were usually played face down.

She turned to smile at the young woman at the next table. They'd been conversing idly for the last twenty minutes. The girl was friendly in the way Glaswegians often were. Sympathetic, a ready ear.

‘I think I've been stood up,' Helen said.

‘Some fellas are just congenitally late,' the girl said. I'm Sally, by the way. Kincaid.'

‘Helen Mboto.'

‘Care to spell that?'

Helen smiled. She had a smile that dazzled. ‘Spell it just the way you say it.'

‘You want another coffee?'

Helen shook her head. She'd already had two cups and she felt jumpy. ‘A glass of water might be pleasant,' she said.

‘Plain or sparkling?'

‘Sparkling, please. But you –'

‘I'll get it. No problem. I've been stood up myself by some numpties in my time.'

Numpties
. Helen didn't know this word. She deduced its meaning from the context. It certainly wasn't a compliment.

Sally Kincaid, slim-hipped in blue jeans, went to the counter, and returned with fizzy water and a small shot of espresso. She sat down facing Helen Mboto.

‘Where you from, Helen?'

‘Zambia.'

‘You like it here?'

‘I get homesick sometimes. But, yes, I like this city. After I graduate, I hope to stay here and work. If I can.'

Sally Kincaid stirred sugar in her coffee. ‘Those butterfly things in your hair. What are they made of?'

‘Coral.'

‘They're very pretty.'

‘My grandfather gave them to me when I left home. To remember him.'

‘You live nearby?'

‘In Kinning Park.'

‘You have a flat over there?'

‘I rent a room in somebody else's flat.'

‘I live round the corner,' Sally Kincaid said. ‘It's convenient for the city centre. And for work.'

‘What kind of work do you do?'

‘I write for one of the local papers,' Sally said.

‘You're a journalist?'

‘Way down low on the ladder. I get the obits to write.'

‘Obits?'

‘Obituaries? When somebody dies.'

Helen Mboto felt relaxed in this woman's company. She'd already begun to shed her irritation about Jay. There was a good expression she'd learned in Glasgow:
he could go take a running jump at himself
.

‘Is it interesting work?'

‘It gets gloomy. Dead people all the time.' Sally Kincaid had a big brown leather bag she placed on the table. She plunged a hand into it. Helen heard the sound of keys, coins, matches rattling in a box.

Sally brought out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Want one?'

‘I don't smoke,' Helen said.

Sally stuck a cigarette in her mouth and struck a match, but she didn't light up. ‘I don't like smoking in cafés and restaurants any more. You always get dirty looks from non-smokers. They make you feel like a leper. Listen, you fancy a cup of tea somewhere I can smoke?'

‘I should wait for Jay,' Helen said.

‘Forget Jay. Look, if he turns up and you're not here, he'll be on the phone to you before the night's out. Men are all the same. Whip the rug out from under their feet, suddenly they're all attention. Like puppydogs. Come on. I know a place round the corner.'

Helen Mboto hesitated. ‘It's kind of you, but …'

‘Wait, wait, you don't think, oh no …' Sally Kincaid laughed. ‘This is some kind of pick-up?'

‘No, but –'

‘You'll realize how ridiculous that is when you know me a wee bit better. Men are my weakness. I don't need extra vices.'

Helen got up from the table. She was embarrassed. Sally was only offering friendship. Sometimes city life made you suspicious. You wanted to feel free and open-minded, but it wasn't always possible.

Sally was already moving towards the door. She took a black raincoat from a hook in the wall. She said, ‘Never trust the weather here. You've learned that already, I suppose.'

‘It was the first thing I learned,' Helen said. They went out into the street. She found herself staring into the headlights of traffic coming down Byres Road, and hoped she might see Jay running towards her, apologizing for being late. But there was no sign of him.

‘This way,' Sally said. She took a few steps along the pavement, away from the main thoroughfare. ‘It's only a few blocks. I live in Havelock Street. Tell me what kind of tea you like.'

‘We're going to your house?'

‘Flat. Two rooms and a bathroom. I call it home.'

‘I thought we were going to another café. Are you sure this is no problem –'

‘Problem? No way. I've got green tea, Typhoo, Darjeeling, some herbal stuff, nettle. You know what they call people in Glasgow who love tea? Tea-jennies. That's me. C'mon. Let's get a move on. I think it's going to rain again.'

Helen hurried after her. They entered a street where the lamps were less bright. Sally took a big bunch of keys from her bag. She unlocked the security door of a tenement and stepped inside a long tiled close leading to a flight of stairs. Helen followed. On the first landing Sally stuck a key in another door and turned it.

‘Home sweet home. It's not a palace. Be my guest.'

Helen stepped into the flat. The living room was barely furnished. A sofa, a coffee table, no decorations on the walls. A fireplace with imitation coals. The air smelled damp. The wallpaper depicted seashells and sea horses.

‘I know, I know, it's pretty basic.'

Helen said, ‘My grandfather always says we allow possessions to own us.'

‘Wise man. I'll put the kettle on.' Sally Kincaid opened a door that led to the kitchen. ‘You fancy Darjeeling?'

‘It's fine,' Helen said.

‘Sit down. Get comfy. Meet my flatmate.'

‘You have a flatmate? I didn't know. Will she mind you bringing a visitor?'

Sally Kincaid didn't answer. She went inside the kitchen.

Helen sat on the edge of the sofa. Webs hung in high corners of the room, and dead flies lay inside the overhead lightbowl.

A man stepped from the kitchen. ‘Hello. I'm the roomie.'

‘Oh. I think I expected a woman,' Helen said.

‘See what expectations can do?'

His face was ordinary, neither benign nor cruel, but for some reason she didn't like it. Instinct. She couldn't say why she felt uncomfortable. She looked at her watch. How long was she expected to stay? She had no grasp of the local etiquette.

He stood over her, leaning slightly towards her. ‘Our Scottish hospitality is famous all over the world.'

‘Tea'll soon be ready.' Sally Kincaid appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘I have to prepare for a class tomorrow,' Helen said. ‘I can't stay long.'

The man said, ‘You'll stay for tea, surely.'

‘Mandatory,' Sally said.

Helen Mboto stared at the cheap synthetic material of the man's trousers. She could smell him. The sweat, the material, perspiration and chemicals. The smell was offensive. She got up from the sofa and the man placed his hands on her shoulders and shoved her down again.

She was baffled by his aggression. A joke, maybe some playful gesture? A local custom? But he wasn't smiling.

‘You'll fucking stay,' he said.

‘What's going on, Sally?' Helen asked. ‘Does your friend have a problem?'

Sally said, ‘You don't leave until you've had your tea. Rule of the house.'

‘This is some kind of, what, joke?'