A Bad, Bad Place

Baldy sighs and drags his hands across his huge shiny head. He's probably got hair but shaves it off cos he thinks he's Kojak. His name turns out to be Detective Alistair Baxter. He lights a cigarette and gives one to Nana. Val is standing behind us, guarding the door. She must be pure melting in that heavy uniform. I touch my pinkie and blink twice, the trick we did as wee kids when we made a wish. But she doesn't faint.

"I want to start at the point where you go to Martin Gillespie's door, hen," Baldy says at last.

Everybody's ready. There's a scab on my knee that's exactly thirteen days old. I pick it just enough for a tiny blob of blood to appear. And now I'm ready too.

Martin opened his door. He was in his pyjamas, proper Star Wars ones, not fakes from the market. He gets nice clothes cos his da works on the rigs.

"I can't come, Janey. We're going to the Botanics."

I was raging cos I got up early. "You're going to miss the Spitfire then." The firework was a belter. I found it near the bins, all nicely wrapped in toilet roll and poly bags. Somebody must've planked it and forgot.

"Can you no wait? It'll be a mental explosion in the Screke," Martin said.

"It's no my fault, you're the one messing up." I was kind of wanting to go with them, the Gillespies are nearly my family, but he didn't ask. He'd brought a bit of gammon out for Sid Vicious and was making him give a paw. I was pure huffy but Martin still did the chant, " Sing like Johnny Rotten, sing like Johnny Rotten." I joined in and Sid howled. Martin was knotting hisself when he closed the door.

The Dummy Railway used to be real and the tracks stretch for miles. Even though it's all grass now with places to hide and climb, hardly anybody plays down there. When you get down the embankment, there's a weird quietness, like the air is too thick or something. There's stuff lying about that nobody wants to look at, manky nudie magazines and mattresses with stains that give you the boak. Nana's likely the only person that remembers when the trains ran and

sometimes I worry about her being so ancient.

I followed Sid through the gap in the railings. The jaggy nettles there are murder but Sid goes mental off the lead and crashed through them, bouncing all the way down the embankment to the tracks. It hadn't been raining but my shoes still squelched in the mush between the rotted sleepers.

The plan was to light the firework in the Screke, an old tunnel that's top secret. There's a bend in the middle of the Screke that takes all the light away and the echoes are loud enough to ache your teeth. The big dare is to scream all the way through it but without running. Nobody ever manages because even if you don't believe the stuff about ghosts and evil skeletons, you still have to watch for glue sniffers and drunks. I was thinking I'd wait for Martin after all.

Sid was way ahead and I had to run to catch up. He was making growly noises behind a rose hip bush, "itchy-coos" we call them because of the way the buds stick to your skin. Maybe I would pick some to shove down stupid Martin's stupid pyjamas. But there was a stink.

"You better not be rolling in keech again," I said out loud.

I wasn't scared when I saw her, not at first. She was lying face up and her legs were apart but at a weird angle. You could see right away that she was dead. There was a droning sound but I think that was just inside me. I didn't stop, just kept walking towards her like it was any ordinary thing. Her feet were bare and dirty and I looked around but couldn't see her shoes. I don't know why her shoes mattered. Then, I knelt down beside her. That's when the wee bit of broken glass went into my knee.

"Why did you kneel down, Janey?" The police always ask this.

"I don't know. I just thought..." I thought she wanted somebody with her, I thought she was maybe lonely. But I don't say this because it makes me sound a bit mental.

"This is the point that you touch Samantha Watson's dress."

My face goes bright red. "There was blood all over her tummy and her, her, down there. She had no pants on." I feel Nana's hand on my shoulder. She reaches forward and wipes my knee with her hanky. I've gone too far picking the  scab.

"And you don't know how long you waited?" Baldy asks. I shrug. Long enough to see a big fat bluebottle crawl out of her mouth.

"Have you remembered seeing anyone walking near the embankment?" Val asks. I shrug again, and she makes a tutting noise. I really don't like Val. "Could you try to describe how Miss Watson looked?"

My leg starts shaking and blood from the scab plops onto the floor. Red, shiny blood. The blood on Samantha was not red. Her dress was sodden in thick dark sludge, oozing over the bright polka dots. And it smelled. Why did her blood smell? Why was it so dark? Black puddles of blood all round her body.

"No," I say, way too loudly. I stand and the plastic chair makes a big clatter and they are all staring, but I'm no talking about that. No way, no for anybody.

"Right, that's it," Nana says. "Yous already know about the taxi driver who called your mob. So there's nothing more to be said." Nana's wee and a bit fat but when she's angry, she looks pretty hard. She lifts her handbag and shuffles over to square up to Val. Sometimes, Nana is better than all the mums and dads in the world. All the time, really.

"Mrs. Devine, please," Baldy says. "Janey, hen, sit down and tell us about the taxi. You absolutely sure it was moving? Gonnae talk us through that bit again."

"I don't—I don't really remember how I got to the main road." It's like one of those dreams where the bits don't join up and you know there's a chunk missing.

"But you are sure it was Balmore Road?" asks Val. She reminds me of the snobby Andrea, always putting up her hand in class.

"The taxi," Baldy says. I hope he's angry at Val for showing off.

"It nearly hit me. That's how I know it was moving. The driver got out and shouted at me to get off the effin' road." I say "effin'" because Nana doesn't stand for swearing unless it's about Orangemen. "But then he was staring at me, and he took my hand and sat me on the pavement. He pulled his taxi over and brought me one of those tartan blankets. He said he was Alex, Taxi Alex, and did something bad happen."

"Did he mention the body first? Think hard, hen."

"No," I say, "it was me that told him about, about—"

"Did Alex Finlayson look clean to you?"

"Clean?"

"Any mud or stains on his clothes?"

I close my eyes to remember better. Taxi Alex was chewing Wrigley's Juicy Fruit. He had very rubbery hands and his voice was high, not like a man talking. He talked a lot, on and on and on, but I can't remember what about.

"I think he was clean. Maybe some dirt on his shoes."

Baldy is writing all the time, the words like toaty blue earwigs crawling over his notebook. I want to go home.

"Did the taxi driver leave you alone at all?" he says, adding more earwigs.

"Just a wee while. He went to look over the bridge at the Dummy Railway. When he came back he gave me a Wham."

"He gave you a what?"

"It's a sweetie," Nana says, and does a look cos taking sweets is not on.

"It was for shock, Nana."

"This Alex character. Yous looking at him?" she asks, her mouth doing that tight thing where it looks drawn on. "Is this no supposed to be gangland related? The papers are saying Samantha Watson's father has connections to the Eggman and—"

"We can't discuss that, Mrs. Devine." Baldy sits back on his chair and tugs at his trouser knees. Men do that, even priests and they don't really count as men. Maybe they think it makes them look important. Or maybe their trousers just don't fit right. "Okay, Janey, last question. Can you tell us anything else about that day? Anything at all?"

He's looking right into my face now. "No," I lie.

CHAPTER 4

Tottie-Heid is in the snug with a Daily Record: Murder and Crime Family Pull-out Special spread on the table. He's like a wean with a comic.

"Stuart, 'mere," he shouts to the barman. "Check these pictures. See what a lovely-looking lassie she was."

Stuart catches my eye. He's in a bit of a state.

Of all the staff at The Glen, without a doubt Cathy's got it the worst. Behind the bar, Tottie-Heid squeezing in tight, making out that he's only touching to move her out the way. Cathy can't afford to say a thing, no with three weans and one of them not right. But I feel for Stuart too, forced to listen to this shite just because he's a man. As long as there's hair on your chin, you're always one of the boys, always part of the team. Stuart sits, a big skinny-malinky with a glass of Irn-Bru, wishing he was miles away. Poor soul, AA and working here. He doesn't stand a chance.