The Watcher. Grace Monroe
It was a long shot, but everyone else had bought her a fantastic present and I didn’t want to look like Scrooge, so I reckoned that, if I dragged her around Jenners, with Jack behind us still, perhaps I could see what made her eyes light up. Visiting Santa had been a tradition that Mary McLennan and I had. She took me to see him on two separate Saturdays because I refused to believe he would remember what I wanted. Connie was almost as tall as me and wearing about a ton of lip gloss and I doubted I could make her go to the grotto under any circumstances. We wandered around for a little while and I tried to see enthusiasm at every opportunity – but with Kailash and Malcolm there for her every whim, and a whole new ‘family’ dancing at her feet, Connie was never going to get thrilled about a cuddly toy or a pair of slipper-socks.
Princes Street, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 3.40 p.m.
The hunched babushka leaned on her walking stick, bundled up against the cold, wearing every article of clothing she owned. Her grey-coated tongue played with her false teeth. Mashing her jaws together, she moved the dentures in and out to pass the time. The Watcher sniffed and got the smell of stale urine on her – he was disgusted, but the old woman was safe from him.
Last-minute Christmas shoppers moved like shoals of fish, endlessly weaving in and out. The windows of department stores were filled with golden tinsel, and expensive dresses that would cost less than half that price in three days’ time. The babushka stood in the centre of the pavement, craning her neck, hunting for something, someone – the good citizens of Edinburgh gave her a wide berth but she’d found her mark.
The Watcher giggled to himself: Who knew that he had so much in common with peasants? Actually, on second thoughts it was an unpleasant idea.
The old woman reached out and grabbed Brodie McLennan. Clawing on her clothing, she demanded help. The babushka’s voice was guttural, low, like a cat ridding itself of a hairball. He shuddered. Her gnarled hands waved a piece of paper in front of Brodie. The Watcher squinted. It was a photograph she was brandishing – it was impossible to tell but he imagined that he knew the face.
Sniggering, as Brodie spoke slowly and deliberately, it was obvious to The Watcher that the hardhearted bitch was trying to palm the babushka off with enough money for a cup of hot chocolate and no more. Brodie raked through her pockets, coming up with some loose change, which the old woman took and secreted in her bag, but she held on tight to Brodie – this was not an end to the matter. Jack Deans tried to pull Brodie away, but Connie spotted his move; she was having none of it. Suddenly, the old woman’s plight became the most important thing in the thirteen-year-old’s life. Testily, she slapped Deans’s hand and pulled Brodie over to the babushka.
Deans pulled out a well-used wallet and handed Brodie a ten-pound note. ‘It’s really not going to work, Brodie,’ The Watcher heard him say. ‘She’s oblivious to my charms.’ Brodie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Fine – you’re right. I just think you could try a little harder.’
The Watcher smiled slowly, satisfied that Brodie had been hoodwinked – it made him feel safer. He moved in even closer. He needed crowds – it was easy to get lost in them. An electric shock passed through him as he crept nearer still. Close enough to see that Jack Deans wanted rid of the precocious brat as soon as he could. Connie was obviously cramping his style. He giggled to himself again – in a way, he was about to do Jack Deans a big favour.
The cold damp air was making Brodie’s beautiful red hair curl into a rumpled, just-crawled-out-of-bed look. The Watcher licked his lips and flexed his fingers; he was itching to make his move. He could feel his impatience growing. Closing his eyes, he centred himself – act in haste, repent at leisure. Another of his mother’s maxims. For several long seconds he breathed deeply, consciously relaxing every muscle in his body. The rattling tin broke his state. His eyes flashed open and the Salvation Army officer stepped back. She saw something that gave her pause and caused her heart to race a little; withdrawing the tin she scuttled away.
The Watcher ran, sprinted around the corner – but it was too late. Brodie, Connie, Jack Deans, and the babushka were disappearing in a taxi.
She was getting away from him – again.
Danube Street Casino, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 5 p.m.
Glasgow Joe opened the front door of the casino to us, looking surprised, to say the least – and he didn’t like surprises. He always said he’d never met an assassin who did, which was fair enough. Not that he was in that line of business any more, of course – he’d given that up for me. The fact that I’d brought Jack Deans with me was obviously another source of displeasure. Joe flicked his eyes over his so-called rival, and I could almost hear him thinking that Deans was too bloody smooth by half. In fact, I’d been wondering myself whether Jack hadn’t been scrubbing himself up a bit better since he’d returned – maybe it was my imagination, but I thought his hair had fewer grey streaks in it than before.
‘What are you looking at?’ I said, ignoring the fact that he was Kailash’s partner in the casino. In spite of Kailash’s protests to the contrary, she was considering dumping the brothel end of her business and concentrating on Internet gambling while still perfecting it in the real world too. The billions-a-year in profit made from online betting was too much for her to resist – she wanted a piece of the pie and had decided to share it with Glasgow Joe. The initial income was set to their quadruple projected forecasts. Joe was going to be rich soon, very rich, but all the money in the world wouldn’t solve the problem he was clearly having seeing me with Jack.
‘Members only,’ he snarled, sticking out his hand in front of my companion. The two men stared, digging into each other. Joe’s eyes were stained with insomnia. Jack was the only one who was smiling, and he smiled like the cat that had the cream – in Joe’s mind the bastard probably had. I was annoyed at both of them – and myself.
‘I told him you wouldn’t let him just walk into your casino!’ shouted Connie, stirring from the back of the line where she was jumping with glee at the thought of Jack being blackballed. Joe was trying to teach her about good sportsmanship, something he knew little about, so, reluctantly, he stepped aside and let Jack in. It was an upmarket establishment, though. How would we explain the smelly old bag lady beside us? ‘She’s with me,’ Connie piped up, as she pushed the crone inside the hallway, obviously having fallen for whatever story she had been fed.
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