Today's Reading

I start thinking about my three brothers sent to war and only Finn, the youngest, came back, bringing that ear of his. Some men never stand a chance. I need to wipe my eyes but my hands are manky.

"Always a waste when they're gorgeous," Tottie-Heid says, and lowers his head. It's nowhere near opening time but his teeny eyes are already clouding from the drink, his spongy nose shining. What gives that dung heap of a man the right to drool over Samantha Watson, making judgements, as if she was nothing more than a nice vase that somebody took a hammer to?

"Of course, Ah'm well quoted with Billy Watson, well quoted," he says. "If you ask me, the murder wis comeback. Billy Watson's messed wi the wrong people." As if he knows anything.

"Is it right Watson works for yon Edgar brothers?" Stuart says. " Sees to their money?"

"Aye, so Ah've been tolt. Duncan Edgar, the Eggman, he owns that Ashfield Cabs up the road there. Billy does his accounts, his dirty accounts, if you get ma meaning. Right-hand man to the Edgars, so he is." Tottie-Heid turns a page in the Record and points to a photograph, taken from miles away. "See that big cunt in the hat? Top man in the MacQuarrie family. He's got it in for the brother, Jimmy Edgar. If the MacQuarries are in a war wi the Edgars, Billy's lassie wis just collateral. No doubts."

He sees I've stopped to listen and says, "Away and see to the mopping, stupid face."

My husband used to speak to me like that, and after Donald Devine, I swore I'd never let another man order me about, yet here I am, kowtowing to Tottie-Heid.

I move to the bar and start. It wasn't too many years ago that The Glen had sawdust on the floors and I still find it lodged in cracks in the lino. It's no a popular pub, and the hard wooden chairs, decrepit tables and mean wee strip lights seem to match Tottie- Heid's personality. There's a gloom that stops the young yins coming in and most daytime customers are the two-bob mob who smoke dowts off the street, the dedicated drinkers who wouldn't even notice if the place was on fire.

When I empty the ashtrays, I find the Snotterer has been in again. Cathy maintains he doesn't come in to drink, just to fill ashtrays with phlegm. She keeps an eye out but has never caught him in the act, and without a doubt it'll be a him. I was dealing with one of the Snotterer's messes when the police told me about Janey finding the body.


Must be near four weeks now, and when they came in I thought it was for the usual free pies and pints. Tottie-Heid, supposedly well quoted with gangsters, is right cosy with the police. But I heard them ask for me and my insides shrank.

Tottie-Heid brought them over and I had to sit before my legs went. "Mrs. Devine? It's about your granddaughter," the woman policeman said, her face sour with the information.

"It's all right, missus. Your wean's no harmed," said the other one, an older policeman that I wanted to throw my arms around and cuddle, "but you need to come and get her at the station."

"Her lassie in trouble, then?" Tottie-Heid asked, no doing much to hide his delight.

"Nothing like that," the policewoman said, "she was walking your dog—"

"Oh, surely no Sid Vicious? Has he been knocked down again? Ach, Janey'll be—"

"It's not the dog, Mrs. Devine. Your granddaughter found a corpse."

They had a panda car waiting outside The Glen, and it was when the policewoman took my arm to help me in that I realised I was still holding an ashtray full of snotters.


There's a big laugh from the snug. What can Tottie-Heid find funny about Samantha Watson's story? Another dead woman. Woman. Samantha was only twenty-two, no much younger than my Marie when she died. And wee Donna just eight. All just lassies. What is there to laugh about?

When they leave to do the barrels, I sit to read. I don't like bringing the paper home because this stuff would just upset Janey. Upsets me but I can't stop myself. Is there a name for that—when you don't want to know about something but go out your way to find out? Probably just stupidity.

There doesn't seem to be anything new apart from the approximate time of death on Saturday morning. Oh, Mother of God, it's terrible close to when Janey got there. Bile fills my stomach but I can't stop reading. The rest of the article is the tripe they've dredged up on the father. Samantha's hardly mentioned and no a word about the murderer or what they're doing to find him. I'm demented knowing he's walking the streets, demented. In my mind's eye, I see him down
the old railway, having a laugh as well.


CHAPTER 5
-23 days-

Twenty-three days since I found the body.

Last year, I drew a Countdown to Christmas on my bedroom wall. The woodchip wallpaper made it look rubbish and Nana was annoyed when it wouldn't clean off.

Now, I'm marking the days since the Dummy Railway in my secret scrapbook. Miss Cox let me bring the binder home and the front cover still says, My Ancient Egypt Project. There's stickers of Tutankhamun and the first page has a rubbishy drawing of a pyramid. But the rest is all about Samantha Watson.

Nana said nobody would know it was me that found her. But the neighbours in our flats knew, and Ali in the Red Shop, and likely everybody in the whole of Possil. Probably Nana's boss that spread it about. Or Nana.

And everybody at school knew. On my first day back, they all crowded round.

"Was it all blood and guts, Janey?"

"Were you screaming? Did you shite yourself?" "Was the dead woman a nudie?"

I just stood there looking at the ground till Miss Cox came out and made them line up. She took my hand and we went in the teachers' entrance and she was all nice and kind. That made it worse and I wished she would just shout like normal.


This excerpt ends on page 16 of the hardcover edition.

Monday, July 20th, we begin the book The Survivor by Andrew Reid.

What our readers think...