My curiosity about who and what Willie is doesn’t diminish. In fact, over the course of a few days I find that if I’m not thinking of anything else, then I’m thinking about Willie – what a rotten bastard he is, how unfair it is he gets to own thirteen properties and I will never own one, that the harm he’s inflicting is legitimised by much of society’s belief that a property portfolio is nothing more than a wise, shrewd investment. My brain has been so full of Willie at all times that I’ve started jogging in an attempt to clear it with physical activity. So far it has not been successful, but I persist because it can’t continue like this, can it?
It’s nearing the end of the working day when I decide on the next logical step in my obsession. I rip the corner of my notebook page with Willie’s house number on it and put it in my pocket. I’m going to take a pilgrimage to his home. This is, I’m aware, a bit mad sounding. If Gavin leaves at the same time as me then I will not go to Willie’s, because Gavin will ask where I am going as it’s not on my route home and, even though I will lie about my destination, knowing what I am lying about will shame me into not following through.
It turns out Gavin’s presence is not an issue. They tell me they have ‘a lot to catch up on with the Go Holdings account’ – whatever that means, and frankly, who cares. Off on my weird little journey I go.
On the walk to Auchingramont Road, an understanding forms within me that the reason I can’t shake these thoughts of Willie is because he needs to be punished and no one else but me will sort him out. I cross Cadzow Bridge, which is above Cadzow Glen, an expanse of woodland with a burn flowing through it, and a small wooden bridge over the burn in the glen itself. Willie’s road is the next left. It’s the street lots of people deem the nicest in Hamilton. The houses are in various styles but almost all large, grand sandstone buildings with bay windows and turrets, big gardens in the front and back. They have character, and that character is someone a bit posh. People aren’t wrong, these are lovely houses, but the street is only surface-level nice. It gets used as a cut-through so they’ve had to put in a load of speed bumps and have designed the pavement to jut in and out so cars can’t drive straight up the road at speed. Loads of the beautiful houses have been converted into offices or carved up, or extended with modern unaesthetic extensions so more people can tell folk they live in the best street in Hamilton.
When I reach number thirteen, I am delighted to find Willie is one such resident and lives in a flat in what was formally a fancy house. It’s built of grey stone, and the style of it looks maybe a hundred years old, with a brown brick extension from the 1970s on the side. It doesn’t match the original house; it’s an eyesore. I take this all in from across the road, carefully positioned behind a pillar of the small office block Willie’s house may or may not look out onto depending on where his flat is situated in the dissected corpse he lives in. Whenever someone leaves the office building I get out my phone and pretend to be looking at it. The rest of the time I stare across at number thirteen, waiting for Willie to reveal himself.
It is while I’m pretending to be engrossed in my phone, shielding my face as a woman from the office goes by, that I receive a phone call from a withheld number. I am not one for talking on the phone to strangers, but given I’ve nothing better to do to busy myself I pick it up and wait for the click of the pre-recorded message of a spam call to begin. Instead I’m greeted by a real person. A policeman, to be accurate.
‘Wanted to give you an update on our investigation into the death of Mr O’Donnell at your property. The postmortem confirmed his death was caused by the electrical work he was undertaking. I wanted to get in touch as a matter of urgency. The electrician who checked the wiring was very concerned about what he saw so, for your own safety, you should get someone to sort it out sooner rather than later.’ In this instant, Dougie the electrician gets added to my list of enemies. Not only did he not help me out, he didn’t even say to my face the flat was a potential deathtrap. Well, we know it’s been a deathtrap to others, but you’d think he’d have had the decency to warn me it could get me, too.
‘So that’s it?’
‘It is. Everything points to the events going as you outlined for us. We won’t need anything else from you, Miss Limond. I know it can be scary having us involved, but when it’s clearly an accident like this, it’s hopefully not been too stressful. Thank you for helping with our enquiries.’
He hangs up, and I keep the phone to my ear as the relief of not being declared a killer fills me. Then Willie appears at a window in the 70s extension. On the television he appeared tall compared to Malcolm and his wife, but in real life he’s even bigger than I expected, at least six foot four. The wind starts to blow and cold creeps through the thin soles of my shoes and the ends of my fingers; this discomfort is what it takes for me to realise freezing my arse off to spy on a man because I hate him is unhinged. I begin to walk along the road towards home, roll the small scrap of paper with the number thirteen written on it and flick it into a bin.
My fingers graze the lip of the bin. I’m walking while rooting through my bag for hand sanitiser when I’m distracted by booming, slappy footsteps getting closer and closer to me. The usual female response to these noises on a quiet evening stroll would be to check over my shoulder in case the person behind me is rushing towards me with ill intent. Instinctively, I decide this is not what I should do here. What I should do is act unbothered, and I’m proven right when the loud walker overtakes me. Willie is forcing earbuds into his ears, his phone illuminated in his hand as he smacks at the screen. ‘Fucking thing,’ he mutters. As he walks further ahead, it seems to me he’s trying to make his huge frame smaller, with his shoulders rounded and his back hunched.
Now he’s in front of me, leading me into the unknown, I can’t not follow him. He’s speedy; I have to walk quicker than my usual gait to keep up. We turn onto the main road, past Hamilton Grammar School, which I attended and haven’t thought about since I left the gates at the end of Sixth Year with Amara, the friend I knew was my soulmate. We pass the Kwik Fit garage, and then he turns into the large silver gates for Cadzow Glen. The tree cover in the glen means entering it moves us into a false twilight. It takes a few disorientating steps for my eyesight to adjust. I follow him blindly, tiptoeing to the darkest shadows. It must be lovely not to worry about who is lingering just out of sight.
I consider ways I could make him reassess his life choices. Not that I would, but here in the outside would be a perfect location to give him a bit of a scare. I allow Willie to move out of view while I use my phone’s torch to see what’s what. A tree falling on him requires timing and equipment I do not possess. I could try and lure him into the bushes claiming I needed assistance as a ruse to attack, but he doesn’t seem the sort who would stop to help. None of the methods I come up with feel right, but being here does. If Iwereto punish Willie, the answer to how is in this glen. And what I’ve learned from dearly departed Colin is that if you want unusual events to be dismissed quickly by the authorities, then it’s best it looks like an accident.
Moving further down the path, I find Willie has stopped to take a call. ‘Ah, it’s yerself, Brian. Stopped shagging long enough to chat, huv ye?’
It’s nice to wander into a scene and know exactly what’s happening.
‘Problem is you’ve called me during my special time. That’s sacred, so I’m not for chatting, OK? I thought we’d known each other long enough that you understood six in the morning, one in the afternoon and six in the evening are when I have my half an hour of peace. Ring me again in the morning and make sure it’s worth my time taking the call, otherwise me and my properties are leaving for AAA Property where I will be appreciated the way a loyal customer should.’
He hangs up on Brian with a full-handed smack to the phone – ‘Cunt’ – then takes a seat on a bench with a view of the bridge over the burn, closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, his hands at rest on his knees. He stays like that for ages. It takes me a while to figure out what he’s up to – he’s meditating, which is something I need to go off and do, too.
11
Say what you like about Nicol – and you can, he’s an absolute bastard – but, and I hate to admit to being wrong, he does have a point about climate change. The planet is fucked. Today’s one of those days that makes you extremely aware the world is burning and is ruined. The sun is too warm, it hasn’t rained for days. The weather is withholding all of the things it usually does in autumn to draw attention to the fact it is hurt. Like a wife not saying a word to the husband she is spurning after a disagreement.
The house in Mote Hill I’ve just spent twenty minutes hanging in the kitchen of so Brian’s phone would ping in the correct location was cool, which was probably something to do with the direction it faced, if I’d paid attention to the listing. The blast of heat I got leaving it and then walking back in the direction of the office has made me sweat in a way I hope can be mistaken for an intentional dewy look, because there’s nowhere I can fix the sheen covering my skin before I meet Gavin in Cadzow Glen for lunch – we might as well enjoy the world burning while we can.
Gavin’s waiting for me on a bench in the grassy area with my Tupperware from the work fridge. They hand me it and then I open it up on my knees. Today’s spread is as disappointing as usual – a flat white bread, butter and watery cheap ham sandwich. It is great I have a job, even this job, but payday is one week away and I am skint. The small sums of money the foot perv sends help me survive, but with nothing left over for extravagant purchases like perishable food.
Gavin does not have this problem. They’re eating a meal of couscous and veg that smells fragrant and nutritious. They chew a mouthful of it and, as they talk, the hand holding the fork swishes around and stray grains of couscous fly. ‘Do you know I’ve never thought of eating lunch in here before.’
This makes sense. The glen is wedged between the nice bit of Hamilton and the rough-arsed area. As a woman, I would never just pop down here to dine while waiting to get mugged or raped. Gavin stands out around these parts with their salmon-pink suit jacket and waxed moustache. To sit here alone would be to ask to get a doing.
‘Well, I’m glad we did.’ I smile, and they reciprocate.
It is such an unseasonably gorgeous day I’m compelled to take a picture on my phone of the roof of the library and the clear blue sky above it. After checking it looks good, I add it to the ‘Pics for Leanne’ folder on my phone I’ve created. Yes, there’s a little more admin to do – all the pictures have to be screenshot once I AirDrop them to Brian’s device and then I have to fiddle with the metadata so there’s no connection to the true provenance of the image – but I feel it’s worth it. Having pictures to add colour to my text message exchanges with her helps add authenticity, and with the right caption I can leave subtle clues to tell her what is really happening. If she looks hard enough, she’ll be able to figure it all out – although she’s not picked up on a single hint I’ve sent her yet. This one could work when Brian has his next lunchtime rendezvous booked in, so long as the weather holds up.
‘Gav, fancy being in shot so I can claim you and Brian picnic in the park together?’
‘Absolutely not. Not only because I don’t want to be involved in Brian’s deception any more than I already am, but also because Leanne would never believe I would dine with him. That picture could be what brings the whole thing down.’
‘Even better. I can fire that off and save her from being tied to Brian’s community penis for the next forty years of her life.’
‘Please, no talk of Brian’s penis when I’m eating.’
As you can tell, I’m sure, Gavin and I have recovered from the smooching. Things are not at all awkward between us. On Gavin’s part, this is probably because they are used to rejecting people uglier than them, and on mine it’s because I’ve kept my urges repressed. I think, maybe, we are pals, although it’s been so long since I made one I’m not sure of the signifiers. We don’t socialise outside of work, but they told me they liked my hair when they saw it was up in a bun today and brought me in a fancy coffee from TIME on Monday morning. Those seem like things friends do rather than mere colleagues. But maybe they view me with pity and those were acts of charity with no hidden depths. And that’s fine – forging a fresh friendship right now might be too much for me, alongside transporting Brian’s phone the length and breadth of South Lanarkshire for work and starting a crusade against Willie in the early morning and evenings. I’m two weeks into trying to sort Willie out and it has been all-encompassing – the following, the researching, the planning.
