Riven

Riven

A. J. McCreanor

Constable • London

CONSTABLE

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Constable

Copyright © A. J. McCreanor, 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than

those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-47211-230-9 (hardback)

ISBN 978-1-47211-236-1 (ebook)

Constable

is an imprint of

Constable & Robinson Ltd

100 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DY

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.constablerobinson.com

For Don

Friday, 13 December

William MacIntyre took advantage of the shift change at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. The nurses were congregated around the desk at the far end of the ward. The day shift was ending and the night shift was beginning. It was eight o’clock, and, outside, icy sleet fell in sheets from the sky. At the hospital entrance, a diverse group of smokers huddled in the rain, sucking tar deep into their lungs and holding it there before reluctantly exhaling. MacIntyre ignored them and shuffled on, his head bent against the sleet. His movements were slow but eventually he reached his destination.

The bridge.

Pulling his coat tight around him, he swayed slightly before finding his balance again. Christ but it was cold. He clamped his jaw shut to stop his teeth from chattering. Despite the methadone, pain had started to gnaw at his kidneys. Instinctively he put his right hand over them and rubbed the three stumps where his fingers had once been, over the pain, kneading them into his back. Under his coat the flimsy green hospital gown crackled against his paper-thin skin. Above him, sodium streetlights bled over the wet concrete, staining it nicotine-yellow. He tried to take a deep breath but the night air was coated with ice. MacIntyre inched closer to the edge, heard the constant thrum of the traffic beneath him. Castle Street fed into the High Street, one of Glasgow’s main arteries, and the road below him snaked around the Victorian facade of the infirmary, past the gothic cathedral and the crypts of the Necropolis where the official number of bodies entombed lay at 50,000.

At the bottom of the High Street, a bus pulled away from the stop and gathered speed. MacIntyre waited until he saw the driver’s face before scrambling over the barricade. Screwing his eyes shut, he muttered a curse before stepping into air.

‘Christ, that was brutal.’ Andy Doyle sat at a table in the Victorian bar in the Bluestone Theatre. ‘I thought pantos were meant to be a laugh.’

His companion, Smithy, nodded in agreement, making the deep folds of fat around his neck wobble. ‘Aye, it wis garbage right enough.’ He took a sly glance at Doyle, wondering whether or not to risk a comment. ‘Thought Stella was good though.’ Waited for the response.

Doyle stared at him until he looked away. ‘Stella’s way off limits to you.’

Smithy realised his mistake and tried to make amends by digging himself a bigger hole. ‘Am just saying though, she looked great up there on the stage. Great part that. Back of the chorus line, right enough, but she’s a real talent though, eh?’

‘Mibbe,’ Doyle replied, but his attention had shifted to a skinny boy who had come into the bar. The boy wore a ripped cagoule and filthy jeans and his face was scarred with acne. Doyle turned to Smithy. ‘Piss off. Go wait in the car.’

The boy approached the table and stood waiting, dripping rainwater onto the floor.

Doyle sipped his drink. ‘Well?’

‘Okay Mr Doyle?’

Doyle looked across to the bar. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘Bit of news, thought you’d want to know.’ He clawed at the track marks on his arm. ‘Guy jumped off a bridge earlier on in the night.’

‘Anybody important?’

The boy raked his nails through his skin, drawing blood. ‘MacIntyre. William MacIntyre did a flyer off the bridge near the Royal.’

Doyle sat back in his chair. ‘Thought he was in the hospital. An overdose?’

The boy stopped scratching, began clenching and unclenching his fists, shifted from foot to foot. ‘Aye, but he left. Just walked out the door – nobody stopped him or nothing.’

‘Is that right?’ Doyle gave the boy his full attention.

‘Aye.’

‘So he just walks out of the Royal and then he jumps?’

The boy nodded then made a downward gesture with his hand. ‘Splat.’

‘Nasty.’

‘Very nasty,’ the boy paused, tried for a smile, almost succeeded. ‘Baxters.’

Doyle glared at him. ‘Come again?’

‘He’s soup.’

Doyle smiled. He saw Stella come into the bar and scan it anxiously for him; he raised his hand. She smoothed down her silver dress and made her way towards him, high heels clicking on the wooden floor.

The boy gave a shaky thumbs up. ‘Right then,’ he paused, ‘I’ll be off then Mr Doyle.’ He waited.

Doyle kept his voice low. ‘Tell Smithy I said okay. One bag. He’s round the corner.’

He watched Stella teeter towards him. The news of MacIntyre’s death made up for him having to sit through her atrocious performance.

She reached the table and held onto it to steady herself on her heels, stuffed the chewing gum into her cheek before asking, ‘Well babe, what’d you think?’

Doyle put his hands together and made a little clapping noise. ‘Great, Stella, you were wonderful.’

‘It’s okay then that I go out with my pals to celebrate?’

Doyle looked at her, saw the blush, saw her look away. Kept his voice calm. ‘Of course, I need to go see Weirdo for a wee chat. Business. Need to tidy up some lose ends.’

Stella’s face relaxed. ‘Great, we’ll hook up at home later? Have a good meeting.’

‘You have fun,’ he grinned, watching her. Saw her smile fade for a second before she pasted it back on. For someone going out to celebrate, she didn’t look too happy.

Chapter 1

Monday, 9 December (four days earlier)

It was early evening and the sky over the East End of Glasgow was gunmetal grey, solemn and cold. Beyond the stone wall, the old graveyard stretched out, the dead earth waiting patiently for the turn of the year and then later, spring, when longer days and shorter nights would see a thaw and the rebirth could begin. Gravestones that had been toppled long ago rested in shrouds of lichen and moss. The trees were naked, their branches stretched heavenwards in despair at the desolation surrounding them. Beyond the graveyard stood a solitary house, silently hoarding its secret, its back door ajar. Waiting.