Lonie 71

It was too early for decent folk to be about; rain washed the pavements of Dumbarton Road clean. Lonie walked to work his head a sodden mass of unruly hair. The Glaswonian offices retained that stale musty smell, but as he climbed the stairs to the first floor he thought there was a kind of forgetting and remembering wrapped up in coming back, even if he’d only been away for a few weeks. The building still shook like a hive with the rattle of the printing presses, but he was different - changed. He sat at his desk and put on his night light. Only the cleaners were rattling about the newsroom, working as a team, one woman emptying bins and ashtrays and the other mopping the floor. There was another night light on in the editors’ office. Paul Woods, his horn-rimmed glasses falling down to the rim of his nostrils and defying gravity, was reading copy. The Fatman and Bresslen had been too much for him and pushed and squeezed him out from editing duties on dayshift to nights. Lonie hadn’t thought about that before. Davy Brown had dealt with him and left Lonie to get on with writing his own reports. That bridge was no longer there. The phone rang in the editors’ office. Woods picked it up. He looked tired and old. Lonie supposed he’d look the same. He walked across the newsroom to report in,fit for work. Woods spotted him through the glass window and hung up.

‘You’re in early.’ Woods didn’t look particularly pleased to see him, but then that was the way he normally looked.

‘Ah’ve been off for a while. Is there anything you need me to work on?’

Woods reached for his fag packet, flicked it open and held it up. Lonie took one of his Woodbine and sat down in a seat across from his desk. The ashtray was full. He reached for the box of matches beside it and lit up adding to the shroud of smoke above the copy desk.

‘I’ve got nothing much for you.’ Woods moved a pencil out of the way so he could shuffle a few sheets in front of him. ‘How do you fancy a murder in Carntyne, or a rape in Milngavie.’ He held up two sheets. One in each hand.

‘Ah’ll take the rape.’ Lonie reached for the details. ‘Ah didnae think they did that kind of thing in Milngavie.’

Woods, his elbow perched on the arm rest and hand sitting languidly in the air as he smoked, observed him through the fug of smoke. ‘Your friend… I was sorry to hear about him. He’ll be sorely missed. Did you hear what happened?’

Like most reporters Lonie knew Woods was primed to tell him in great detail. ‘Aye.’ He cut him off before he could get started and glanced over the paper in his hand. ‘Whit do you want me to do with this?’

‘Just write it up and get it back to me.’

Lonie knew he’d been dismissed and was glad to have a job to do. The sound of hoovering faded and gradually other reporters came up the stairs and along the hall in dribs and drabs, shaking rain off their coats and hats and moaning about the weather. Woods had already finished his shift when McArthur came over to Lonie’s desk. He stood at his shoulders, behind him, waiting for him to finish typing.

McArthur blurted out: ‘You’ll have heard about Davy Brown.’

‘Aye.’ Lonie turned and swivelled his chair around to face him. McArthur with his black tie and white shirt looked ready for any funeral. ‘Any idea when the funeral is?’

‘I heard Tuesday.’ He ran the flat of his hand up and over his forehead and up onto his bald head, nervously, a few times. ‘When you’ve got a few minutes The Fatman wants to see you.’

‘Sure.’ Lonie leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a smoke?’

McArthur patted the back pocket of his grey acrylic trousers before settling on his side pocket. He looked into packet of Players as if he was checking how many he had, before handing one out to Lonie. He looked away as it was taken.

Lonie put the fag into his mouth. He thought Players tasted like rat droppings, but leaned forward to get a light from McArthur. He held a hand up. ‘Tell The Fatman Ah’ve got a couple of things to do here. 'Ah’ll no’ be five minutes.’ He swivelled back towards his typewriter, even though he’d finished that piece. He heard the squeak of rubber shoes on linoleum as McArthur went back to his job of running errands.

He’d a good view of the newsroom door from his desk and as he read over the piece he’d written he’d look over, checking. Audrey was wearing a long powder blue coat that had darkened in the rain, but shimmered as she pushed through the doors and came into the newsroom. Lonie grinned. Elbows on the desk he leaned forward, waiting for her to spot him. Audrey frowned. She made a track towards his desk.

‘What you doing back?’ Audrey’s face expressed some of her irritation. The last few days she’d been waiting for him to call her at home and now here he was, back at work –without telling her -- and grinning like a fool.

‘Ah came back just to see you!

Audrey shook her head at his soppiness, held her handbag like a guard between them and walked over to her desk. She put her bag on the desk and had barely hung her coat on the back of her chair, before he was over bothering her.

‘Did you hear about Davy?’ he asked.

Audrey’s eyes filled up and she put a hand on her desk to steady herself. ‘He was so kind to me. It was a terrible accident. I just couldn’t believe it.’ Sniffing, she pulled open her bag, searching for a packet of hankies. Flourishing a hanky and blowing her nose, she shook her head and looked at Lonie. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. You’ll miss him so much.’

‘Aye. Aye. Ah hear the funerals on Tuesday.’ He wanted to give her a hug, but she smelled so fresh and clean he wasn’t sure he’d not get a hard on. He gave her a minute to collect herself and sit down, before he added, ‘And Ah hear Father Cambell died as well.’

‘Yes.’ Audrey drew out the word and her hands sat with fingers intertwined on the desk as if she was praying. ‘He was such a lovely, lovely man.’ She looked up at Lonie to see if he agreed. ‘Well, at least he died of natural causes.’

Lonie was dying for a fag and his feet started tapping in impatience. ‘That’s true.’ He commiserated, but couldn’t help putting a spin on it. ‘Ah suppose when you’re dead natural doesnae come into it. Everything’s natural. Or unnatural.’

Audrey dabbed at her nose and dropped the crumpled damp hanky into the empty bin beside her desk. Her eyes sparkled. ‘Sometimes I don’t think you’ve got any feelings. You don’t seem to care about anybody or anyone. Everything’s a big joke to you.’ She looked straight ahead at the blank plasterboard, the pecking of typewriters filling the spaces in their silence.

Lonie’s lips puckered before he spoke. ‘Ah care about you.’

Her long white neck turned towards him. One green eye and one blue eye met his. He knew she was savvy, or innocent, enough to believe him.

‘Well you’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ There was a softening in her eyes and in her tone. ‘Davy Brown, your best friend…your only friend dies. I’m up to here.’ She held her hand up to her forehead, which made Lonie smile. ‘And you blank me.’ She sighed.

‘Ok. Ah’m sorry.’ He held his hands up in surrender. ‘Ah’m goin’ in to see The Fatman and, after that, we’ll be working together again.’ He stepped close enough to smell her expensive perfume. ‘Very closely together.’ He would have kisses her had he been anywhere else. ‘We’ll cover Father Campbell’s funeral. It’ll mean another run up to the Secure Unit and Ah don’t know if Ah’ll get in, but with all the fuss we can chance it.’

Audrey took a step towards him and whispered. ‘Does Mr MacDonald know about you investigating him.’

‘Aye, Ah think he does, but with Davy Brown dead and Father Campbell dead and, everything comes in threes, the Secure Unit looking like it’ll close, Ah think it’s just water under the bridge now.’

‘You think so.’

‘Aye.’

Audrey breathed out and there was a lessening in the tension around her shoulders. ‘Go on then.’ She waved him away. ‘Go and see Mr MacDonald and then we’ll go for a coffee.’

‘Or something?’ Lonie grinned. He could feel the beginning of a hard-on.