“The only reason I drove a cab was to keep Bob and Ingrid under surveillance…the bloody thing wasn’t even mine. I just borrowed it from a pal when he wasn’t working. I only took fares if, like you, they furthered my ends, and so I was usually out of pocket by the time I’d paid for fuel. But I didn’t have any other vices and watching Ingrid was my passion. It was more of an escape than anything — just a few of hours away from the apartment and mum. I was supposed to be her full time carer, but I don’t know if I’d have coped without that time to myself each day.” When Judith looked up, Danny was still out on the balcony, but facing her now. “Please, try not to consider me a freak. It’s just really hard giving up on somebody you love. Not a minute’s gone by without my regretting having used you. I might have had a hidden agenda to begin with, but I grew to enjoy your company immensely and felt we could probably be very good pals. So please, please try and forgive me Judith. Be my friend, then at least something precious will have come out of this ridiculous obsession of mine.”
The puzzle of “Must say sorry to Judith” had been solved. Danny had obviously been genuinely contrite about using her and, as such, she found it easier to consider forgiveness. But a much darker issue still needed addressing.
“I can bring myself to understand you spying on Ingrid, even your reasons for not telling her about what Bob did, if I try hard enough. But blackmail? How can you justify something as calculated as that?”
“Homelessness.”
“What?”
“While that arrogant bully’s swaggering round the city with several million in the bank, Finley and I are being evicted, so the landlord can get more lucrative tenants. We’re being deprived of the fundamental human right to a home, while unproductive people like Bob, with their three houses, are hogging all the money.” He stabbed out with his forefinger to stress the point. “All I’ll be doing is taking our rightful share of the cake.”
“Profiting from violence against society’s most vulnerable though? Surely that’s against everything you stand for?”
“Even Castro’s had to make moral compromises…and, anyway, like I told you at the wake, since my ma’ died I don’t have any ideology. Ideology’s what’s been paralysing me all these years.”
“But what if he does it again, only next time he kills somebody?”
“There’s nothing we can do to prevent that short of becoming murderers ourselves. Remember, I never actually saw Bob do anything, and, it’s so long after the event, my evidence would be dismissed as sour grapes over Ingrid. The only thing we’ve got on him is an informal confession. So, if we play it by the book he remains free and unpunished. If we take his cash though, he’ll at least be paying for what he did in some way…we can transubstantiate it through good acts, just like the government claims to do when they confiscate the proceeds of criminality.”
Every so often, exploding fireworks could be heard in the distance, on the outlying housing schemes, beyond the motorway.
“So how have you reached a figure of seven hundred and sixty grand then?” Judith asked, intrigued.
Danny’s eyes suddenly blazed with excitement; something she’d never expected to see in this dour man.
“I can only speculate, but, according to one of Fin’s newspapers a couple of weeks back, sales of The Squeaky Kirk’s back catalogue have gone through the roof since Bob’s arrest.” He rummaged in his dressing gown pockets. “I’ve got some figures somewhere.” Producing a crumpled paper cutting, he came back inside and handed it to Judith. On it was a list of the band’s seven albums and the corresponding worldwide sales tallies from July to the beginning of October that year, totalling six hundred and thirty eight thousand copies. “If each CD sold for a tenner, there’s been a turnover exceeding six million quid, twelve and a half per-cent of which goes to Bob as the composer. That means roughly seven hundred and sixty grand for our charity.”
“Oh! That’s not so bad then — have you decided which one?”
“Too bloody right I have.”
“Yea?” Judith was starting to warm to Danny again.
“It’s a place up in the Highlands. Kids from underprivileged parts of Glasgow go there to learn about art and literature. Then they go on to complete their education at universities away from their hometown, so that they escape the hopeless environments that would otherwise stunt them. Hopefully, though, they’ll return some day to pass their learning on. It’s a beautiful wild place where they can fish, hike and sort their heads out in peace.”
“Arr, that sounds really nice Danny. Where is it exactly?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve found a suitable location. We should be able to get somewhere big enough with more than seven hundred grand, shouldn’t we?”
“What? You’re going to run your own private school?” Judith exclaimed. “You’re going to select who can and can’t attend?”
“Like I say, I’ve learnt to execute my principles within the context of the world in which I actually live. Rather than just moan about the poor provision of services, I’m actually going to provide alternative one’s and hopefully, become a model — a beacon for others. It’s not the way I want it, but the fact is, the poor are going to have to learn to educate themselves, because it’s more than apparent that the middle classes aren’t going to do it for them. Just as the Rochdale Pioneers had to open their own schools in the Nineteenth Century, we, the ‘underclass’, are going to have to do the same now. After all, if you’re not prepared to look after your own, you can hardly expect strangers to.” Just then, Fin walked tentatively into the lounge. “Fin, nip out and get a meal for five from the Chinese,” Danny shouted. “You can take it out of my disability money!” Fin looked delighted. Not only was his brother talking to him, but it seemed he might actually be about to eat something too. “And get yourself some beers and a bottle of wine for Judith — we’re celebrating.”
CHAPTER: 9
After a jovial meal around the coffee table, Judith nodded off on the White’s couch. Next morning, she was woken at around eight by a whistling, clean shaven Danny, whose baggy black suit looked ridiculous on his thin body. Taking pity, she frogmarched him into the kitchen, sat him on a stool and set about his curly mane with a pair of scissors. She was just brushing his brown locks from the linoleum when the buzzer went on the intercom. Danny told his visitors to come up then inspected his haircut in the hall mirror before opening the door. Bob, still in white, marched straight past him to the lounge, shadowed by a dumpy, gnome-like lawyer with a pointed ginger goatee beard, wearing a green and brown tartan suit. Danny and Judith tagged along.
Fergus Baxter slammed a briefcase on the glass coffee table moodily, sitting at the very edge of the couch to open it. The others, all nervous, remained on their feet. He produced a cheque and held it up in the air for Danny to take.
“A hundred and fifty thousand pounds?” Danny turned imploringly to Bob. “We agreed on all your royalties since July. What’s going on?”
“You’re much better off this way — believe me,” Baxter interrupted.
Danny rustled in his suit pocket then handed the paper cutting to the lawyer, who read the text and sniggered.
“I was under the impression you were more intelligent than to believe the newspapers.” Noting the anger in Danny’s eyes, though, he held a pacifying, vertical palm out. “Royalties come in dribs and drabs Mr. White, whereas with a lump sum — invested properly — the interest alone will be more than a match.” Baxter pinched his ginger goatee between two fingers several times. “It’s also less suspicious.”