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Crestfallen, Kevin slumped in his seat, watching the unfamiliar city roll past the windows. He knew he was supposed to like Michael, for his sister’s sake, but he was a moody bastard to work with and no mistake.
By closing time, Michael’s mood had blackened to a pitch where even Kevin realized silence was the best option. They’d explored pubs ranging from raucous student bars with loud insistent music to more traditional pubs where old men nursed their pints with the tenderness of new mothers. Michael had cast an apparently negligent but actually sharp look over hundreds of women, none of them Bernadette Dooley.
They walked back through streets shared with drinkers heading home, the air aromatic with curry and fish suppers, to the scruffy B&B where they were inconspicuous among the transient workers and DSS claimants who made it their home. All the way back, a scowl deepened the crease between Michael’s eyebrows. Kevin had lost count of the number of pubs they’d scouted out, but his pockets were bulging with boxes of matches and loose change. And not so much as a glass of stout had passed his lips.
Michael broke the silence as they turned on to Argyle Street. ‘We’ll do a school in the morning.’
‘Eh?’
‘Patrick says she has a child. A child has to go to school. We’ll stake out the nearest primary to the supermarket.’
‘I don’t remember anything being said about a child,’ Kevin complained.
‘I checked in when we got here. You were in the toilet. Patrick said he’d forgotten to mention she has a child.’
‘I never knew that. From before, like. When she was working in the shop.’
Michael made a kissing sound of exasperation. ‘She didn’t have it then. Whoever it was who spotted her in the supermarket told Patrick she had a child with her.’
‘Maybe it’s not old enough to be at the school,’ Kevin pointed out, proud of himself for coming up with the argument. ‘I mean, it’s not seven years since she left.’
Michael flashed a look of surprise at Kevin. It was always a shock when he said something that wouldn’t be self-evident to a three-year-old. ‘Maybe not. But apart from hanging around the supermarket, we’ve got nothing else to go at. Like Patrick said, she’ll not be on the voter’s roll or in the phone book, not if she’s got any sense. So we’ll check out the primary schools on the map and we’ll be there first thing.’
Kevin saw the prospect of a decent night’s sleep rapidly receding. ‘Right you are,’ he sighed. ‘The school it is.’
Kevin wasn’t the only one who reckoned sleep might be elusive. Lindsay had had one of the worst evenings in living memory, and the turmoil of emotions raging through her didn’t feel as if they were going to subside any time soon. Part of her wished she’d taken Rory up on her suggestion of a celebratory meal out to cement their new partnership and to hell with the consequences. But she knew that, being who she was, that would always have been impossible. She couldn’t be sure whether it was cowardice, love, good manners or fear that meant she had to go home and participate in the insemination she dreaded; all she knew was that she couldn’t bring herself to do otherwise.
She’d returned via the greengrocer in Hyndland who seemed somehow always to have the freshest vegetables in town. Sprue asparagus, a selection of wild mushrooms, fresh strawberries, peaches and raspberries. She’d remembered Fraser’s boyfriend was vegetarian, and while deep down she longed to serve them all congealed Kentucky Fried Chicken, her need to see the world well fed wouldn’t allow it. It was a mark of pride to Lindsay that when people ate in her kitchen, they ate memorably and well. So she’d take the time and trouble to produce grilled asparagus, wild mushroom risotto garnished with parmesan and rocket, and a fresh fruit salad. If she’d liked them better, she’d have made a meringue shell for a pavlova, but her soul wasn’t feeling that generous.
She’d thought that Sophie would be home early for once, but her lover only just made it through the door ahead of their guests. ‘Trying to avoid talking about it?’ Lindsay had said sourly when Sophie finally walked into the kitchen and came up behind her to kiss her on the neck.
‘No,’ Sophie replied evenly, refusing to be drawn. ‘I was called in on an emergency consult at the Western. You’ll be pleased to hear we saved the baby and the mother, though it was touch and go with the mum.’
Guilt-tripped, Lindsay said nothing, taking out her spleen on the parmesan, producing a pile of extravagant curls.
The rest of the evening hadn’t gone any better. Fraser and Peter had clearly already been to the pub before they arrived, drowning their apprehensions in whisky, to judge by the smell on their breath as they leaned forward in turn to plant air kisses on Lindsay’s cheeks. ‘So, what’s the drill?’ Fraser had demanded with an air of forced gaiety. ‘Is there some ceremony to the Goddess, or do we run straight through to the spare room and have a wank?’
Lindsay closed her eyes momentarily, biting down hard to keep her mouth firmly shut. ‘Don’t be daft,’ Sophie said, her voice more affectionate than Lindsay could ever have managed in the circumstances. ‘We’ll eat first. Lindsay’s cooked us a lovely meal. And then …’
‘He can provide his specimen, eh?’ Peter chipped in, his ferret smile disturbingly predatory. Lindsay was glad Sophie had asked Fraser to be their donor; at least he looked like a human being, not an escapee from a vivisection lab. Sophie’s chosen donor would be a good match for her, Lindsay thought dispassionately as she poured wine for everyone. Like her lover, Fraser was above average height, especially for a Scot, and he had the same trim build. His hair and eye colour were close to Sophie’s and, like her, he had good facial bone structure.
Lindsay supposed it made sense to have a donor who resembled Sophie so closely. It increased the chances of any baby that resulted resembling its mother. But she couldn’t help feeling an irrational pang of exclusion that Sophie had never even bothered to ask if she’d like them to find a donor who was a match for her, so that there would be at least a chance that any child would look like an amalgam of both of them, rather than be so clearly Sophie’s child.
The dinner conversation had been gruesome. When the two men had eaten with them previously it had been an easy and comfortable evening. But what lay ahead sat like a ponderous elephant in the middle of the dinner table, impossible to ignore yet equally unfit for discussion according to any rules of decorum.
Fed up of the dismal attempts at small talk that kept running aground, Lindsay finally said, ‘You don’t want to be a parent, then, Fraser?’
Fraser looked startled. ‘Well, not in the sense of day-to-day involvement, no. Though I like the idea that my genetic material will continue after I’ve gone.’
Selfish bastard, Lindsay thought. She wondered why he thought his genes were so special they deserved to be preserved, but realized this wasn’t a line of conversation that would endear her to Sophie. ‘So you’re not going to be popping round to take the wean to the football? Or the Scottish country dancing,’ she added as an afterthought, remembering that Peter had revealed that he and Fraser had first met at a gay and lesbian ceilidh – the sort of event she would have slit her throat rather than attend. Lindsay had grown up in the Highlands and knew what ceilidhs were supposed to be like. She thought Peter and Fraser would last about ten minutes, tops, at any village dance she’d ever attended.
Fraser smiled uncertainly, unsure if he was really hearing hostility. ‘I’m happy to let you and Sophie bring up the child without any interference from me,’ he said cautiously. ‘I don’t mind it knowing I’m the other half of its genetic make-up when it’s older, but I’m not planning on being a father in any active way.’
Lindsay smiled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sophie suddenly look apprehensive. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t decide when he’s thirteen that he’d rather live with the other half of his genetic make-up, then,’ she said.
‘Lindsay, do stop trying to frighten Fraser,’ Sophie said. Her voice was light, but the look she gave Lindsay would have melted the snows of Kilimanjaro. ‘Now, would anyone like any more fruit salad?’
Fraser and Peter exchanged a swift glance ‘Maybe we should just cut to the chase, Sophie,’ Fraser said.
‘I’ll show you to the spare room,’ Sophie said, ushering them out of the dining room and throwing a warning look over her shoulder at Lindsay. When she returned a few minutes later, she found Lindsay clattering the dirty plates into the dishwasher.
‘Are you deliberately trying to fuck this up for me? Or are you behaving inappropriately because you’re nervous?’ Sophie demanded.
‘Neither. I was simply trying to make sure we all knew what the ground rules were.’ Lindsay closed the machine forcefully.
‘But I told you that last night. You knew I’d already been through it all with Fraser.’
Lindsay tipped the remains of the fruit salad into a plastic container and headed for the fridge. ‘I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’ She leaned against the worktop, her arms folded across her chest. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, but it’s hard for me to take your word for things when I know how desperately you want this. You’d tell me black was white if you thought it would prevent me standing in the way of you chasing this particular dream. So I don’t think it was out of order for me to ask Fraser what I did.’
Sophie’s grey eyes blazed anger. ‘I don’t suppose you stopped to think that it made us look like anything but the close and confiding couple?’
Lindsay shrugged. ‘Maybe Fraser will just figure that I’m cautious. Which is a sensible thing to be.’
Sophie ran her hands through her hair. ‘Jesus. I’m supposed to be in a relaxed and receptive state for insemination and look at me. Wound up like a fucking spring, thanks to you.’
Her partner’s anguish worked on Lindsay as no rational argument could have done. She put her arms round Sophie and murmured, ‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry. Come on, let’s get you sorted.’
Sophie led the way through to their bedroom. Somehow, she’d found the time to lay out a sterile plastic syringe by the side of the bed. ‘What’s the drill?’ Lindsay asked grimly.
‘Peter will bring the sperm through in a glass. It starts to thicken once it leaves the man’s body, so we have to keep it at blood heat for about ten to fifteen minutes so it’ll liquefy again.’
‘Too much information,’ Lindsay muttered.
‘The best way to do that is to put the glass between your breasts.’
‘My breasts? What’s wrong with yours?’ Lindsay demanded.
‘I’ll be lying on my back with a pillow under my hips, Lindsay,’ Sophie said impatiently as she began to undress.
‘Great,’ Lindsay muttered. ‘Then what?’
‘You take it up into the syringe and inject it as far up my vagina as you can get.’
‘And that’s it?’
Sophie, by now stripped down to her underwear, had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Not quite. There’s strong anecdotal evidence that an orgasm around the time the sperm is introduced increases the chances of success.’
Lindsay looked appalled. ‘You’re not suggesting we …?’ Then she suddenly saw the funny side and burst out laughing. The release of the tension that had them both clenched in its grip brought them together again like a stretched elastic band snapping back into shape. ‘I really don’t think I can do it,’ Lindsay spluttered.
Sophie finished undressing, slipping quickly beneath the duvet. ‘I don’t think I could keep a straight face now. Probably better if I do it myself.’
Lindsay closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with thumb and forefinger. ‘I think that might be best,’ she said, shaking her head incredulously, a final snigger escaping her lips.
Before she could say more, there was a tentative tap at the door. ‘All ready, girls,’ Peter sang out from the hall.
Lindsay opened up and stared down in disbelief at the glass being proffered to her. A large gob of off-white mucus clung to the bottom of the Edinburgh crystal, as viscous and slimy as phlegm. Wordlessly, she took it and closed the door. ‘You gave him one of my whisky tumblers,’ she said plaintively. ‘How can I ever drink out of them again?’
Sophie snorted with laughter. ‘That bloody dishwasher’s about as hot as an autoclave. Trust me, you’re not going to catch anything.’
‘It’s not a matter of hygiene, it’s a matter of taste. And I’m not talking flavour,’ Lindsay growled, thrusting the glass down the front of her shirt to nestle in her bra between still firm breasts. ‘Oh God, the smell,’ she moaned as the sharp tang of the sperm invaded her nostrils. ‘It’s like municipal swimming pools. Jesus, I really thought being a dyke meant I’d never have to deal with this gunge again. This is so disgusting, Sophie.’
‘You think I don’t know that? Listen, you’re not the one facing the prospect of having it inside you.’
Lindsay gave a savage grin. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’
‘Very funny. Come and give me a cuddle, please?’
Gingerly, careful of her cargo, Lindsay edged alongside Sophie. With her free hand, she stroked Sophie’s hair, letting her lips brush against the top of her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt less sexual,’ Sophie said, her voice wavering on the edge of tears as she struggled for arousal.
You and me both, Lindsay thought grimly. But she kept her thoughts to herself and dropped her head to Sophie’s breast, gently nuzzling her nipple. She licked it harder, sucking it into her mouth and tonguing it firmly. She was rewarded, as she knew she would be, with a soft moan and the arching of Sophie’s spine.
Then suddenly it was all action. Lindsay had to pull away to draw the sperm into the syringe. Placing her hand over Sophie’s, she slid the barrel into her lover’s vagina as far as it would go, then depressed the plunger. There was a desperation in Sophie’s cries as she came almost simultaneously. When Lindsay dared look up, she saw tears tracking down Sophie’s cheeks. She knew her own eyes were pricking almost to overflowing.
Their reasons, she knew, were dangerously different.
Lindsay leaned against Sophie’s bent legs, her cheek against Sophie’s knee. As soon as was decently possible, she pulled away. ‘I’m going to see if the guys need a drink,’ she said. Anything to get out of there and find a moment to get her face in order.
Now, two hours later, Lindsay was staring out of the living-room window to the moonlit playing fields across the road and the tawdry glitter of the city lights beyond. She had shared a large malt with Fraser and Peter then seen them out. She’d made a cup of herbal tea for Sophie, whose body had overnight become a temple worshipping very different gods from before. She’d climbed into bed as she suspected she was expected to do and had faked sleep. Once she’d been certain that Sophie’s deep and regular breathing wasn’t feigned, she’d slipped out of bed, poured herself another Caol Ila and sat on the window seat wondering how much of her future lay within these walls, and how much within the walls of the Café Virginia.
6 (#uf40614f1-1550-598f-b7c2-1bfe6293107d)
A few miles away, Rory McLaren was also pondering Lindsay’s future, though not in quite the same terms as the subject of her plotting. She swigged greedily from a bottle of water and let herself slide down the wall she was leaning against until she was hunkered down level with Sandra. Sweat streaked their faces and bodies as they grinned inanely at each other in the chilling-out space in the basement of E-scape, their favourite dance club, which occupied a former warehouse where Garnethill merged into Cowcaddens.
They’d split a tab of ecstasy earlier in the evening, they’d danced like dervishes and now they were both starting the gradual descent to the point where sleep might be possible at some time in the not too distant future. But for now they were content to let the gentle throb of the ambient track ease them down gently.
‘What’re you thinking?’ Sandra said after a few minutes.
‘How useful Lindsay’s going to be.’
‘That would be in a work context?’
Rory giggled softly. ‘I was thinking about work. But you never know …’
Sandra groaned. ‘Stick to the work. Useful how?’
‘Well, take Keillor. I’ve got the tip, I’ve hardened it up pretty well, but I need some solid evidence. But Keillor knows me, so I’ve got no chance of scamming him. He’s never seen Lindsay, though. Maybe between us we can figure out how to have him over and she can do the sharp end.’
Sandra’s mouth curled up in a feline smile. ‘Oh yes, I like it. Nail the wee slug to the floor.’
‘I’ll talk to her about it in the morning.’
‘It’s already the morning.’
‘Only technically.’ Rory hugged herself and scrunched her face up in an expression of amused cunning. ‘A couple of real buzzes like creepy Keillor and she’ll be so hooked. Which will be nice.’
Sandra chugged on her own bottle of mineral water. ‘Uh oh.’
‘I mean it’ll be nice to have somebody around to work with. I never thought I’d miss the newsroom – and I don’t, not really. But it does get lonely sometimes. Everybody in the bar is a potential source, so I can’t afford to let them be my friends. I spend most days not really talking to anybody unless you or Giles stop by. Lindsay … now, there’s somebody I can talk to. Nice woman. Very nice woman.’
‘She’s also a happily married woman, Rory. Tell me you’re not going to crash through her life like an express train on speed,’ she sighed.
Rory shook her head vigorously, droplets of moisture scattering from her sweat-darkened hair. ‘Hey, she’s a grown-up. She can make her own choices. I don’t force myself on anyone.’
Sandra snorted. ‘Little Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt. Rory, just for once, walk away from it. You know you don’t do relationships. You’re the emotional equivalent of a hit-and-run driver. You never get hurt yourself, you just leave a trail of wreckage in your rear-view mirror.’
Rory pulled a face. ‘Yeah, well. When the only relationship you’ve ever seen close up was as fucked as my mum and dad’s was, you’d be mental to think it was as easy as falling in love. Dive in, dive deep and then climb back out and dry off before you catch a cold, that’s what works for me. But if it makes you any happier, I promise not to make a move on Lindsay. OK?’
Sandra put an arm round her friend and hugged her close. ‘It’s not about making me happy. It’s about you making yourself happy.’
‘Which I do, with lots of girlies.’ Rory’s smile was wry. ‘Only, never for very long.’
‘Well, remember that if Lindsay starts looking like Mount Everest.’
‘Eh?’
‘You don’t have to climb it just because it’s there. You’ll have more fun in the long run working with her.’
‘Sandra, are you sure you’re not Jewish?’
Sandra gave her an affectionate punch in the ribs. ‘Fuck off, Rory. C’mon, let’s go and have a last dance and see if I can pick myself up some wee boy who wants to be initiated into the secret world of the older woman.’
Rory chuckled as she got to her feet. ‘And you’ve got the nerve to talk about me.’
Sandra rumpled Rory’s damp hair. ‘Difference is, I can do the serious thing just as well as I do the playing.’ She pushed past and made for the stairs leading to the main dance floor, entirely missing the momentary flash of sadness and longing that crossed Rory’s face.
The raw cold ate into Kevin’s bones. Michael seemed oblivious to the weather, as affected by the penetrating damp as were the concrete and glass of the primary school they were watching. The school was near the Botanic Gardens, in a quiet side street lined with tall sandstone tenements, which posed something of a problem for them. There was no convenient bus shelter or phone box to use as a surveillance point. Nor was there a handy café with windows overlooking the school entrance. And in these days of paedophile paranoia, nothing would provoke a call to the police faster than two men standing on a street corner scrutinizing the children arriving at a primary school.
If it had been up to Kevin, they would have gone back to bed after their preliminary reconnaissance at half past seven had demonstrated how apparently impossible was the task facing them. But this was the school nearest the supermarket where Bernadette Dooley had been spotted, so they had to start here, Michael decreed. And besides, he had spent long enough on the front line to have honed his improvisational skills. As they had walked up Byres Road towards the school, he’d noticed two youths by the Underground entrance handing out copies of a free newspaper to the commuters hurrying into the station. When he realized how exposed the school was from a surveillance point of view, he’d remembered the newspaper distributors.
He’d marched Kevin back down to the station and gone into a huddle with the youths. A threatening look from his amber eyes would probably have been enough to achieve his goal, but Michael didn’t want to be fixed in anyone’s memory as a bad lad. Not just yet, anyway. So a couple of tenners were swapped for two bundles of freesheets and they walked back to the school, where they took up position at either side of the gates, handing out the paper to teachers and parents as they arrived.
Nobody gave them a second look.
‘Won’t she recognize you?’ Kevin had asked as they’d walked back.
In reply, Michael had taken a pair of glasses from his inside pocket. They had thick black frames and lenses tinted blue. He put them on and simultaneously let his shoulders slump. In that instant, the threat disappeared like the sun behind a cloud.
‘No, right, I see what you mean,’ Kevin muttered.
