1989, p.6
1989, page 6
The first mobile phone the office had issued her with had been the size and weight of a car battery, with a handset on top. When she’d brought it home, Rona had roared with laughter. ‘It’s about as mobile as a fridge freezer,’ she’d exclaimed. Even though the network coverage was better these days, the reception was still dodgy enough to drive news editors crazy. Now that Allie was running her own ragbag of freelances, she’d lost count of the number of times she’d heard, ‘You’re breaking up, love,’ when she was handing out an unpopular task. Partly they did it to avoid whatever it was she wanted of them; partly it was the cost. Allie could never work out how the phone companies had the nerve to charge their customers for receiving calls from a mobile as well as making them.
She drove through the outskirts of Edinburgh, past the wealthy enclave of Barnton to Cramond Village, and parked up with a view of the black waters of the Firth of Forth. Across the wide estuary was East Wemyss, the village where she’d grown up. She’d only been back a couple of times since the move to Manchester; there was nothing to draw her back, nothing to feel nostalgic for. She felt like a stranger; it certainly wasn’t the return of the native.
The lights of Fife twinkled in clumps that marked the towns and villages along the coast. Invisible beyond a corner of coastline was Kirkcaldy, where her parents now lived. They’d moved three years ago to a neat little bungalow overlooking Ravenscraig Park. She imagined them sitting down to their evening meal somewhere round that corner, the TV on in the background. She had to use her imagination because she’d never crossed the threshold. All she’d seen of their home was what she’d glimpsed doing a slow drive-by one summer evening when work had brought her back to the patch where she’d grown up.
Her loving Rona had been incomprehensible to them. She’d delayed telling them for more than a year after they’d shared their first tentative kiss, but she didn’t want Rona to think she was ashamed of their relationship. That Rona’s parents and siblings had embraced Allie as one of their own only made her feel worse. ‘They might surprise you,’ Rona had said when Allie tried to explain her reluctance.
They hadn’t. The three of them had sat round the kitchen table eating Sunday dinner, making desultory conversation over roast chicken, peas and mashed potato, Allie struggling to swallow at the thought of what she’d decided to do. When her mother began to gather up the plates, Allie cleared her throat and said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Josie Burns demanded, knowing her daughter well enough to understand this wasn’t good news. ‘Has something happened at work?’
Allie drew in a deep breath. ‘I’ve met somebody. We’re in a relationship and I’m very happy.’
Her mother gave a hesitant smile. ‘But that’s good news?’
David Burns was less sure. ‘You don’t look happy. What’s the problem? Is he married?’
‘David,’ Josie scolded him. ‘Why would you think such a thing? We brought Allie up better than that.’
Allie stared at her plate. ‘Nobody’s married.’ Screwing up her courage, she lifted her chin and said, ‘It’s not a he. It’s a she.’ The silence seemed to swell, pushing the air from the room.
Her mother flushed, as if someone had slapped both cheeks. Her father’s lips pressed tightly together, momentarily bloodless. Then he said, ‘That’s ridiculous. You’ll say anything to get attention. I thought you’d grown out of that childish behaviour.’
She bit back her anger. ‘I’m a grown woman, Dad. Believe me, if I thought I could avoid this conversation, I would. But I’m not ashamed of who I am or who I love. Call me crazy, but I thought you might be pleased that I’ve found someone who loves me, somebody that makes me happy.’
He made an explosive sound. ‘Happy? How can you be happy with a woman?’
Allie couldn’t help herself. ‘Well, you claim to have managed it.’
A red tide rose from his neck and engulfed his face. ‘How dare you compare your mother and me to this . . . this filth.’ He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘You’ve always had boyfriends,’ Josie said, plaintive and placatory.
‘I did. And they never made me feel the way I thought they would. Not like the love songs or the movies.’
‘You just haven’t met the right one.’ Her mother looked desperate.
‘I have met the right one. Her name’s Rona. Rona Dunsyre. She’s kind, and funny and clever and beautiful, and I still can’t believe we found each other.’
David Burns scoffed. ‘And is she sponging off you?’
Allie shook her head. ‘Money’s got nothing to do with it. But if you’re worried – she earns more than I do. Dad, for the first time in my life, I feel I’m in the right place.’
He stepped back, almost recoiling. ‘You disgust me. You’ve been brought up in a good Christian home, and this is how you repay us? I think you need to go away and have a long look at yourself, Alison.’
‘It’s maybe just a phase, isn’t that what they say, David? You read about it in the papers, young people experimenting, then coming to their senses?’ Josie was pressing her fingertips along her jawline, panic in her eyes.
‘Of course it’s—’
‘It’s not a bloody phase,’ Allie said tightly. ‘Rona is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. If we could get married, we’d do it tomorrow.’
Her father scoffed. ‘Well, that’s never going to happen. We’re a civilised Christian country here in Scotland. How stupid can you get? How can queer perverts be married? You can’t have children. That’s what marriage is supposed to be about.’ He stepped behind his chair and tucked it under the table, his controlled fury obvious.
Now Allie was on her feet. ‘You’re behind the times, Dad. Lesbian families are all the rage. Look, if you can’t accept my choice, there’s nothing more to be said. You’re not going to change my mind.’
‘I think it’s time you left.’ David gripped the chair-back so tightly his knuckles were white.
‘I think you’re right.’ There was a long moment where they all refused to meet each other’s eyes.
‘Allie . . .’ her mother pleaded.
Allie turned abruptly and walked out of the room. Her father’s words rang in her ears as she grabbed her coat and made for the door. ‘And don’t come back till you’ve come to your senses.’
That had been the last time she’d been in the same room as her father in more than eight years, unless you counted her Uncle Andrew’s funeral service in the crematorium. Her mother had stayed in touch, with occasional phone calls and, while she was still working in Glasgow, awkward lunches near Queen Street station. Every time, Allie suggested Rona join them; every time her mother had said she wasn’t ready for that.
The impact of that Sunday lunch had hung in the air between Allie and Josie, like the aftershock of an earthquake. She’d sensed something similar in the living rooms of the bereft from time to time. It was as if someone had ripped their lives in half – before the disaster and afterwards. It wasn’t as if she’d been close to her parents. There had been little in common to stitch them together. But she’d never gone through the hostility that friends had experienced in their teens and beyond. There had always been a vague lurking hope that they might find more common ground now she was an adult. But that was never going to happen. Rona was her home now, her family. And she was fine with that.
10
A dog barking woke Allie from a deep sleep. For a moment she was confused, thinking it was Germaine, and wondering why the window was in the wrong place. Then she put the pieces together. She wasn’t at home; she was in Sarah Torrance’s spare room in the north Edinburgh suburb of Trinity, where the quiet streets were lined with solid Victorian villas. Sarah was a fellow journalist, covering fashion and theatre for a Scottish broadsheet. She’d originally been Rona’s friend but she’d happily drawn Allie into their circle. When they’d moved to Manchester, Sarah had insisted they should stay with her whenever they were in Edinburgh. It was an offer Allie was always glad to accept.
She’d arrived in time for dinner with Sarah and her teenage daughter Meriel. Sarah’s husband was a BBC foreign correspondent, perpetually shuttling from one overseas crisis to another, currently somewhere in the Caucasus. They sat down to steaming bowls of venison chilli, glasses of red wine to hand for the grown-ups. ‘Why can’t we have beef like everyone else?’ Meriel complained.
‘Because it’s absolutely laden with fat,’ Sarah said. ‘You’ll thank me one day when your arteries are still functioning.’
Meriel harrumphed and ostentatiously mixed the meat sauce with rice. ‘Are you here for a story, Allie?’ she asked.
‘What? Did you think she’s just here because she loves us so much?’ Sarah teased.
Meriel scowled. ‘No, Mum. Rona would be here too if it was a fun trip. I was trying to take an interest, like you’re always telling me to.’
‘I am here chasing one story for sure and another one for maybe,’ Allie said.
‘That sounds weird. How come?’
‘I’ve got one story more or less nailed down. I just need to firm up the Edinburgh end of it. And I got the lead on the other one when I was doing the first one.’
‘Intriguing,’ Sarah said. ‘Can you tell us what it’s all about?’
Allie would have deflected that request from most journalists, but she knew Sarah could be trusted not to run off to her newsdesk with the tip. So between mouthfuls, she told them what she knew so far.
‘There’s drugs everywhere in Edinburgh,’ Meriel said, with all the lofty assurance of a fourteen-year-old whose life is as safe as her parents and her expensive school could make it.
Sarah put her cutlery down. ‘Not around here.’
‘Mum, just because the only used needles you ever see are the ones granny does her knitting with doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Muirhouse and Pilton are just down the road. And you’ve said yourself that burglaries and car break-ins are massive in our lovely Trinity.’ Meriel smiled sweetly to sugar the sarcasm.
Allie smiled, rueful. ‘She’s got a point, Sarah. There’s a major drugs problem in the city, and it’s mapping right on to an AIDS epidemic.’ She’d driven around Muirhouse and Pilton herself on the way in, and it had been a depressing experience. The high flats, low-rise blocks and mean little houses looked unloved and run-down. It reminded her of photographs she’d seen of post-war Soviet housing, right down to the scrubby grass and churned-up mud. Weak lights glowed through thin curtains; other uncovered windows showed the flickering colour palette of invisible TV screens. Hardly anyone was out on the streets. A handful of youths lurked in a bus shelter. A couple skinny as fashion models hurried into a block of flats, the woman teetering on blocky heels. Two men walked towards her car, their jackets too thin for the weather, their frail faces tucked into the collars, their shoulders hunched. Everyone she’d seen looked ill and pinched, apart from a pair of middle-aged men emerging from an off-licence with carrier bags that explained the barrel guts they carried before them. Tomorrow, she was going to have to find people from these grim streets to interview. For most people, that would be an unappetising prospect. For Allie, it set her journalistic juices flowing. Finding the right voices to tell a story was what she lived for in her professional life. And giving a voice to people whose lives had left them silenced was always worth doing. ‘Well, at least some of them are taking their problems to other people’s cities,’ she said wearily.
‘That’s hardly a solution, though, is it?’ Sarah picked up her fork and resumed eating.
‘What about the other story? The drugs trial? How will you find out whether there’s a story there?’ Meriel asked.
Allie smiled. ‘Are you rehearsing for a career in journalism?’
‘No. I’m thinking about joining the police after I’ve been to university.’
Sarah groaned. ‘Not this again.’
‘I don’t know,’ Allie said. ‘There’s plenty of scope for smart and thoughtful people in the polis. Especially women.’
‘I want to be on the murder squad,’ Meriel said. ‘I bet I could do better than most of the detectives there.’
‘It’s not like Taggart, you know. Most murders, there’s not much to solve. They’re either domestics or drunken brawls.’
Meriel rolled her eyes. ‘I know that. But sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s like Bible John or the Yorkshire Ripper, and they need really good detectives. That’s what I want to be.’
Allie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She didn’t think many of the cops investigating the Lockerbie bombing would ever have dreamed of facing an atrocity like that, never mind seeking it out. She exchanged a look with Sarah. ‘Aye, well. Plenty of time before you have to make a decision about the rest of your life.’
‘I’m not going to change my mind, you know. So how are you going to find out about the drugs trial?’
She was persistent enough, Allie thought. ‘I’ve got the name of a local GP. I’ll take it from there. I’ll tell you tomorrow evening if I get lucky.’
Fuelled by coffee and a bacon sandwich, Allie checked in with her freelances. One of them had copper-bottomed the story he’d been chasing, which gave her something to placate the London newsdesk with. Then she headed back to Muirhouse. As she drove, she remembered something Jamesie had said to her. ‘People don’t care about drug addicts. We’re the people who rob your car and steal your granny’s wedding ring and give your daughters AIDS.’ It was a shorthand version of what the press had been screaming for a while. She had two mountains to climb – first, to persuade Edinburgh’s HIV victims to talk to her, and then to persuade her newsdesk to run the story. Two separate pitches, and each as crucial as the other.
Before she reached the housing estate, she stopped at a newsagent and scoured their limited card selection till she found one that didn’t wish a happy birthday or sincere condolences. The watercolour of a heather-covered mountain bore no relationship to anything within fifty miles of Muirhouse but it was blank inside, which was the main thing. Back in the car, Allie sucked her pen for a minute, then wrote.
Dear Dr Diack,
Please excuse this intrusion on your overworked and intensely busy practice. Although I am a journalist, please don’t dismiss this approach out of hand. My name is Alison Burns and I’m the northern news editor of the Sunday Globe. I have great sympathy for those caught up in the HIV/AIDS epidemic – I’m gay myself and I have lost dear friends to this terrible disease. I’m not here to demonise them as so many of my colleagues have done.
I’ve recently become aware that there is something of an exodus among HIV+ patients from Edinburgh to other UK cities. I’ve spoken to several of those who have left and it seems that one reason for this is insufficient facilities in Edinburgh and the failure of Lothian Health Board to address this. I know you’re one of the key medical professionals bucking this trend and I want to talk to you about your work and also what you think is needed here to improve the situation. Half an hour of your time is all I’m asking. I’m happy to fit in with your schedule. I plan to be in Edinburgh for the next couple of days.
Sincerely, Alison Burns
Years on the front line had taught Allie how to write a begging letter, though she held out few hopes for this one. Sometimes the judicious application of flattery worked wonders, especially if it was seasoned with a bit of personal interest. But any doctor working in a practice with so many habitual drug users had probably been exposed to a myriad hard-luck stories and lies. She feared he’d be immunised by now. But she had to try. She always had to try.
The group practice where Dr Derek Diack worked alongside three other medics was housed in a single-storey brick building with metal grids over the windows and roller shutters protecting the entrance. A single slash of graffiti across a neighbouring wall read, THE WHITE HORSE OF HEROIN WILL RIDE YOU TO HELL. Allie pushed open the door and walked into a reception area that felt as if the promised destination had already been reached. Among the posters and leaflets on the wall was the unmissable tombstone poster. A couple of smaller HIV+ support group circulars flanked it. There were the usual walking wounded of a GP’s waiting room – whining infants and small children, an elderly woman hunched over a walking stick, a teenager with his arm in a sling. What was less usual, in Allie’s experience, were half a dozen grey-faced hollow-eyed men and women who either couldn’t stop twitching or else appeared to be on the verge of catatonia. Nobody bothered with anything more than the most cursory of glances at the new arrival.
She crossed to the reception desk, where three receptionists sat behind screens with cut-outs at the bottom barely big enough for a hand to pass through. Allie pasted on her best smile and slid the envelope across. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could give this to Dr Diack. It’s kind of urgent. I’m happy to wait for a reply.’ She nodded at the waiting-area chairs. ‘I’ll just sit myself down.’
‘Are you a drug rep?’ The woman glared at Allie.
‘No, nothing like that.’ Allie walked away and sat in the nearest chair.
‘His surgery’s full this morning.’ The receptionist wasn’t giving up.
‘I’m not in a hurry.’ Allie took her copy of Gillian Slovo’s Death Comes Staccato from her bag and opened it at her bookmark. Allie loved the new wave of feisty feminist private eye novels that had made its way across the Atlantic. She knew enough about the business from her friend Bill Mortensen to know the fiction was just that, but it was a form of escapism that reinforced her own love of investigative reporting, so she devoured it avidly. Even so, she managed to keep her peripheral vision on alert. Patients came and went, the receptionists called out names, children grizzled and people coughed. No doctors appeared. Occasionally, a receptionist would disappear through a second door at the rear of their area. Allie noticed her envelope accompany one of those trips.
