“People don’t know the real Andrew. He’s the most caring man I’ve ever met- very loving and sweet and gentle. He’s the most popular person in the prison. The other prisoners love him.”
After four years behind bars, Andrew Gow, 33, finally feels he has found true love. Speaking through his manager, Stevie Ray, Gow announced on the day of his wedding, “I have finally found love forever. Donna is a true lady.”
Gow was a minicab driver before he was convicted of murdering five Glasgow prostitutes in 1993. He was arrested after being stopped for cruising in the red-light district of the city and confessed to police that he had committed the terrifying series of murders. At the trial Gow pled guilty but now claims he is innocent.
While in prison Gow studied art and has become a poet. He writes to his new wife every day and sends her poems and drawings he has done of her.
They’ve reproduced one of his handwritten poems. McGonagall would blush. The script is neat and boxy, and he’s drawn flowers and knives all over the paper. Badly.
When I saw her I knew she was the one for me.
A very special lady.
Eyes of love like lovely diamonds.
A smile of joy.
Maybe it’s the light.
Maybe I’m dreaming.
Maybe there right.
Maybe I’m insane.
Although married, Donna and Andrew have met only four times.
The first time was after just three letters had passed between them. For the visit, Donna wore a red dress, which Andrew had chosen for her from ten photographs she had sent in of herself in different outfits. Donna says their first meeting was a special day.
“It was as if we’d known each other all our lives. We cuddled and laughed together. We weren’t awkward. It was a relief because I had finally found my Andrew. I always knew there was a special man out there for me, and when I saw the picture of Andrew in the paper, it was as if I recognized him. It was love at first sight.”
Donna was born and grew up in Leicester. Currently living in Kirkintilloch, near to the prison, she aims to train as a travel agent and wants to do exams so she can support her new husband when he is released. Sadly, Donna’s dad died recently, leaving her without a family of her own.
“Andrew and I are incredibly close,” says Donna. “Probably because I have no one else.”
But Andrew has been married before. Shortly after his conviction, his first wife, Lara Orr, was quoted as saying she hoped she never saw him again. “He is a violent man who made me dress up for kinky sex games,” said Lara at the time. “I hope I never see him again. He has ruined my life.”
Although they were separated immediately after the touching service, Donna insists that she does feel married. “We weren’t able to consummate the marriage, but we were allowed an hour together, under guard of course, and that was great. We just held each other and kissed and laughed. Andrew doesn’t want to see me sad. He said if he ever sees my tears, he’ll hang himself.”
What a nice man. The article continues and gets more and more anodyne and hard to read. It finishes: “As soon as Andrew gets out, we will go up to the north of Scotland and start a new life together.”
God help the Highlands. They are cluttered up with incomers from all over the country, running from whatever. Mr. and Mrs. Petty-Fury from Shropshire who can’t maintain a harmonious relationship with any neighbor anywhere. John Q. Bankruptcy, living on a yacht with a suitcase full of cash. Ms. Adulteress and her suspiciously young friend. It’s almost impossible to stay in the Highlands for any length of time without seeing all the subtexts float to the surface, bloated and obscene, like rotting day-old corpses. And Donna and Gow were going to add to that.
The article finishes with a picture Gow has drawn of Donna with her hands behind her head. I don’t think he meant it to be a sexy drawing, I think it’s just because he can’t draw hands. It’s not a bad drawing, actually, although she looks as if she’s squinting and the tip of her nose is dirty.
I understand what Susie means in the Dictaphone interview now: when she’s talking about projection, she means love like this. All this stuff about Gow’s being gentle and kind and everything, it’s so obviously not true. They found the blood of the women in his car and his spunk on them. They proved he was in the area during the crimes. Reading these interviews, it’s as if Donna were trying to turn a really fervent hope into a fact by being adamant about it.
chapter nine
I WAS A BALL-HAIR AWAY FROM WRIGGLING OUT OF TAKING Margie to nursery, but I gave myself a talking-to. I felt a bit cocky anyway because I had a dream last night, about myself and Susie. We were swimming through the living room in Otago Street. The water was amniotic and comfortable. We slid past each other in the warm currents, touching fingertips, smiling in the blue light. It felt prophetic somehow, as if everything were going to be okay. I woke up feeling sure again, thinking that she’ll be back, certain I can cope. This lasted until I got to the doors of the nursery.
I need to get Margie back to some sort of normality. She needs routine, I need to sort these papers out, and Yeni needs to go to English classes. She’s been fantastic and has done the bulk of the child care while I mope about and come up here. She’s not required to do so much, and would have been within her rights to leave us when Susie was first arrested. She’s a kind girl. I think back on myself at eighteen and I know I’d have run away at the first sign of trouble, but she’s mature for her age, emotionally. She told me she has four younger brothers, so maybe that explains it. I thought of buying some thrush suppositories and leaving them in her bathroom, but that’s probably a bit presumptuous.
I’m avoiding writing about the nursery. As I walked through the park, I could see up the hill. Beyond the park gate parents, mums mostly, were parking their big cars and pulling the little kids out of the backseats, lingering in the street before they took them in, chatting to each other. The trendy brigade, what Susie calls the MILTers (Mums in Leather Trousers), were gathered around the doors of one of the urban jeeps, looking in at something on the floor. I began to wish I’d sent Yeni, but I want to be with Margie during any potential unpleasantness. If anything happens, I want her to remember me being there, not simply handing her over to Yeni all the time.
Margie was messing about, picking up leaves and showing me them. I picked her up, put my head down, and walked up the final hill to the park gate. My heart was thumping like a gallows drum. Margie realized where we were going and got excited, squealing and stiffening her body to be put down. I held on to her tightly. Luckily, a small boy had caught his coat on the cast-iron railing at the head of the stairs, and some parents were engaged in trying to untangle him. I slipped down the stairs to the basement without catching anyone’s eye.
Usually I just let Margie run in, but Mrs. McLaughlin waved me over and asked how I was: syrupy concern, head tilting and hand rubbing. They keep the playroom incredibly hot, so by now I was sweating heavily and could feel my blood pressure going through the roof.
“Fine, fine, fine,” I said, over and over, panting, trying to cool down and calm down at the same time. I looked far more distressed than I felt. All around the room parents tried hard not to look at me.
Margie ran off and tugged at a fire engine a small boy was holding. The boy’s hand slipped and he let go. Completely unnecessarily, Margie smacked him over the head with it before crouching down to run the wheels on the floor. A horrible quiet descended in the room as the little boy tipped his head back and let out a rolling air-raid-siren wail. We all thought the same thing at exactly the same time. But Susie’s innocent, so how could it be genetic?