The Big Chill Read online

  She strode past them, putting her phone away.

  ‘Thanks for saving me,’ she said, then she was out the door and along the street, ignoring the fire engines with their lights flashing, ignoring Imogen and Sally calling after her.

  24

  JENNY

  It was depressing how many hits Jenny got on Google maps when she typed ‘homeless services, Edinburgh’. Dozens of pins scattered across the city, some she recognised like Shelter and Bethany’s, but loads more she wasn’t aware of, The Rock Trust, Streetwork, Four Square. She felt overwhelmed by the idea of an interconnected web, people doing small things to make life bearable for others. She was reminded of the map upstairs in the ops room, all the cemeteries, crematoriums, hospices and hospitals. Maybe the Skelfs were making a difference, helping people through tough times, but Jenny struggled to see it sometimes.

  She made a list and printed it off, putting the Leith shelters at the top, since that’s where Jimmy X’s car was first spotted by the young cop. She checked with Indy that the body van wasn’t needed today then headed out into metallic grey light, low cloud smothering the city like a shroud.

  Four hours later she was even more depressed. She’d noticed the recent rise of guys sleeping on the streets, but hadn’t realised the extent of it. Each visit was the same. She had a quick chat with a harassed volunteer, got handed to the manager, equally desperate. No one recognised Jimmy X from the picture, but he’d grown a beard and lost a lot of weight since it was taken, and added a layer of grime, so maybe this was pointless.

  Each manager told the same story, funding cuts, understaffed social care, massive problems with universal credit. All of it was throwing previously solid people out on their arses into a city that wasn’t prepared. The vast majority of people they housed had mental-health issues, drug and alcohol addiction to deal with, and now found themselves homeless.

  Jenny spoke to people in the lounge of the Bethany place off Great Junction Street, they all had similar stories. Lack of family support, no jobs, one missed rent payment and they were lost, through the cracks and into a subculture that existed as its own ecosystem beneath the tourist gleam of Edinburgh. Most were young men but by no means all, there were plenty of mothers with children, families waiting months or years to be housed.

  Jenny couldn’t stand it. She was such a hypocrite. She broadly thought of herself as socialist, believed in helping others, but it was all lip service, she never really did anything to help, and there were so many people who needed it. She hated herself and her privileged middle-class background, her solid family and the work she’d fallen into. When dad died and she lost her journalism job, she moved back to the big house without worrying. She felt a swell overcome her when she thought of her mum, taking a middle-aged daughter back into the house without blinking.

  Worse than the charity places were the privately run hostels used by the council for overspill emergency housing. Conditions were rank, no security, no privacy, filthy beds. Each one Jenny visited made her feel dirty and guilty, and above all lucky that she didn’t have to live there.

  Then there were food banks. She visited all the Leith ones, showing Jimmy X’s photograph to volunteers, nothing. At the Trussell Trust round the back of Aldi she saw a Middle Eastern woman with two young daughters weeping with relief as she rummaged through a carrier bag full of tins. Inside, an elderly helper managed two seconds between organising shelves to look at the picture. Maybe she’d seen him, maybe not, she saw hundreds of people a day, people who don’t want to be noticed because they’re ashamed.

  Jenny headed out of Leith to Holyrood Road, first Streetwork then across to the Sally Army on the corner of the Pleasance. A handful of drunk guys sat along from the entrance, one trying to light a roll-up from his friend’s fag. They raised cans of Special Brew to her as she went in.

  Inside it was the same story, everyone had a browbeaten edge, no one recognised the picture. Jenny sighed and left.

  One guy sitting on the ground waved at her. ‘Fancy a can?’

  She’d had this at several places, the misplaced generosity of the lifetime alcoholic. She’d waved it away before but it was late afternoon and she was shit-tired and depressed and thirsty so she stopped and looked at the guy.

  ‘You sure?’

  His hand was unwavering. ‘Aye.’

  She took the can and opened it, slugged a good bit. It was syrupy and strong as hell, metallic aftertaste like it was made of blood.

  The guy and his two mates cheered, clinking cans together, and Jenny joined them.

  The guy on the ground was in a filthy orange sleeping bag, and Jenny slumped down next to him.

  ‘Tough day,’ he said.

  Jenny took him in. Maybe her age, grey hair receding at the front and long at the back, couple of teeth missing. He wore a North Face fleece. She wondered where he’d got it, then felt guilty for wondering.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said one of the standing guys. He was older, hunched over, red checked shirt. He had a cut on his forehead that looked dirty and infected, and there was a dark stain on his collar. The other guy was younger, tall and skinny, bony arms, in a T-shirt, with a Kangol trackie top around his waist. The older guy wobbled on his feet and Jenny wanted to ask him to sit down. The young guy was jittery, constantly touching his face and neck. Taken together, they were like the three stages of homeless manhood.

  Jenny drank. Fuck, it tasted terrible but she could feel the kick already, understood the appeal.

  The guy on the floor was giving her the once over.

  ‘You don’t belong here,’ he said, not unkindly.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t joke about it.’

  ‘How long have you guys been on the street?’

  Their chests went out, like war veterans asked about their service.

  ‘Seven years,’ Floor Guy said.

  Twitcher stroked his cheek. ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘All my life.’ Old Timer seemed to be talking to someone in the distance.

  Jenny wondered how old he was, how long he had left.

  ‘Hard life,’ said Floor Guy.

  All three nodded.

  Floor Guy turned to her again. ‘So what are you doing, apart from drinking my last can?’

  Jenny fished a twenty out of her pocket and handed it over. Floor Guy took it without fuss and folded it away.

  Jenny took out the photograph, creased along the edges, handed it over. ‘Looking for this guy.’

  Floor Guy examined it. ‘A relative?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re not a cop.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Jenny said. ‘We’re giving him a funeral. It would be good to know who he is.’

  This seemed to satisfy Floor Guy.

  ‘Don’t know him,’ he said, passing it to Old Timer.

  Old Timer tried to focus, narrowed his eyes, swigged his can. Gave a tiny head shake and passed it on.

  Twitcher switched the picture from one hand to the other, rubbed at his neck. Crouched and picked up his can, swigged, put it down again, looked at the traffic crossing Cowgate into Holyrood Road. He stared at the photograph, closed one eye, then swapped to closing the other. His feet tapped on the pavement and Jenny wondered if it was a disorder of some kind, or drugs. Or both.

  ‘The guy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jenny said.

  The head twitch turned into a shake, too long and too hard, like he was trying to dislodge something from his brain.

  ‘Don’t know him,’ he said, ‘never seen him, don’t know him.’

  Jenny held out her hand for the picture.

  Twitcher’s head was still moving, his tongue sliding along his teeth, back and forth. ‘I know her, though.’

  ‘What?’

  Twitcher tapped the picture, pointed at the woman with Jimmy X.

  ‘I know her,’ he said.
‘Definitely. I saw her the other day.’

  25

  DOROTHY

  She turned away from Hibs’ stadium into Albion Gardens. The flats were yet more new-builds, striated wooden panelling and brickwork to make them look older. Dorothy wondered how that would play when they really got old and the wood had to be replaced. She walked to the end of the street and looked up. Five floors from an elevated pathway, a garage built underneath. Sunlight glinted off the windows making her shield her eyes. She searched for movement, a shimmer of blinds or curtains, but there was nothing.

  She turned to her right. From here there was a view of number five Lochend Butterfly Way, Abi’s dad’s flat. She looked up at the Albion Gardens block, the view would be even better from the small balconies on the tenement end. At the top was a Warners Estate Agents sign, matching the one at the stairwell entrance.

  She’d spent hours trawling through Warners’ website, waiting for something to catch her eye. While you could search via location, it was broad, so she’d stuck in Leith. But there were dozens of entries and she had to check the map location for each one. So many places for sale, so many empty properties. She thought about Jenny crawling around the homeless shelters, Jimmy X living in his stolen car.

  She wondered if this was all nothing. Maybe Abi was hiding at a friend’s house, a boyfriend’s. But surely any fourteen-year-old would still have parents around, and what parent would hide someone else’s kid? Unless the friend or boyfriend was much older. Or unless it was something else entirely.

  She walked to the entrance and found the buzzer for top floor right. Breathed in and out and pressed it firmly. Didn’t step back and look up in case someone was checking out of the window. She buzzed again, more insistently. Of course, this wouldn’t work.

  ‘Hello?’

  Christ, a teenage girl’s voice.

  ‘DHL,’ Dorothy said. ‘I have a package for number nine, they’re not answering. Can you buzz me in.’

  The crackle of the intercom, the buzz of the door lock and Dorothy was inside. She went up the stairs wondering how to play it. Reached the top floor and rang the doorbell. Thought she heard something inside, a scuffle of feet. She opened the letterbox, looked in. Bare flat, pastel walls, no signs of life.

  ‘Abi,’ she said. ‘It’s Dorothy. I know you’re in there. Please open up.’

  Another sound, maybe just her own breathing.

  ‘Abi.’

  She heard the chain slide across and the lock click, and there was Abi looking down at her feet, touching her hair with her hand. She was in joggers and a baggy Paramore sweatshirt, the strap of a black vest visible at her shoulder.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Dorothy said.

  Abi walked away leaving the door open and Dorothy followed into the kitchen-diner.

  The views were amazing to Holyrood Park and the back of Salisbury Crags, marred by the huge Sainsbury’s in the foreground. Also in the foreground was Neil Williams’ flat, a few yards over the road.

  Abi slumped in a sofa. There was evidence of action in the kitchen behind her, empty ready-meal containers by the sink, bread by the toaster, a box of tea bags.

  ‘Your mum and stepdad are worried sick,’ Dorothy said.

  Abi looked at her nails, chipped and nibbled. ‘They hired you?’

  Dorothy shook her head. ‘What’s this about, Abi?’

  She chewed her lip. ‘How do you mean?’

  Dorothy stared at her for a long moment. She tried to remember being fourteen, the insecurity, hormones, self-consciousness. But it felt like a million years ago. She had a flash of Jenny at that age, screaming about something, slamming a door and stomping upstairs to the second floor studio she used as a sulk room.

  Dorothy pointed out of the window. ‘Neil Williams. That’s his place.’

  Abi shrugged, it wasn’t a denial.

  ‘Your biological dad.’

  Another shrug.

  Dorothy pressed her lips together and headed to the kitchen. ‘How about I make us a cup of tea.’

  She filled the kettle at the sink, found two takeaway cups in a cupboard, threw tea bags in. Went to the fridge and took out a small milk carton. There were also cheese slices, ham, a bag of salad.

  ‘Where did you get this stuff?’

  Abi nodded out of the window. ‘Sainsbury’s.’

  ‘You have money?’

  A slight nod.

  ‘But that won’t last forever.’ Dorothy poured the tea. ‘So what’s the plan here?’

  Abi pulled at her earlobe.

  Dorothy brought the tea over, sat down next to Abi and handed one over. ‘Let’s start at the beginning.’

  Abi shook her head.

  ‘OK, how about I throw together what I know?’

  ‘Do what you like.’ Abi sipped her tea.

  ‘Well, this place is up for sale through Warners, so I presume either your mum knows you’re here.’ Dorothy stopped and angled her head.

  Abi gave the tiniest shake.

  ‘In that case, you managed to steal or copy the keys from the Warners office.’

  Abi shrugged. ‘It’s not hard, Mum brings keys home all the time if she’s got a viewing last thing in the evening or first thing the next morning.’

  Dorothy smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. ‘And you’re here because you can see your dad’s apartment. I’m guessing you went there and there was no sign of him. Your mum says he’s in Canada at the moment. You would’ve called him. Either he never answered or he said something that made you wonder. Or were you just planning on staying here until he came back?’

  Abi said nothing.

  ‘Then what?’ Dorothy said. ‘Live happily ever after with him, is that it? Travel the world together having adventures? Life’s not that easy, you must know that.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Abi said.

  Dorothy drank tea. The girl was like a skittish fox, and Dorothy had to speak softly and move carefully in case she got spooked and disappeared across the horizon.

  ‘What about this place?’ Dorothy said, waving a hand around.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s up for sale, presumably people are viewing it.’

  Abi sat up, wanting to show how smart she was. ‘I tidy up and leave when the public viewings are on.’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘What about private viewings, they could happen any time.’

  Abi lifted her phone with a smirk. ‘I’m synched to Mum’s calendar. I know all her appointments.’

  ‘Can’t they track you with that thing?’

  Abi shook her head. ‘This is a new phone, they don’t know the number.’

  Dorothy took in the girl. Smart in a lot of ways but still so young, open to getting hurt. Her emotions were written across her face, she hadn’t learned to mask them yet.

  ‘But why?’ Dorothy said. ‘Is it something at home?’

  Abi closed down, her body shrinking.

  ‘Is it Mike?’

  Abi looked up and Dorothy searched for something in her eyes.

  ‘Mike’s cool.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  Dorothy examined Abi’s body, didn’t see any obvious tells. Maybe the stepdad was cool, maybe it was something else.

  ‘Your mum then?’

  Abi shook her head as if sending herself a cryptic message.

  Dorothy touched the back of her hand. ‘Mothers and daughters are tricky.’

  ‘She thinks I’m a little kid.’

  ‘It’s hard accepting that your baby is growing up.’

  ‘It’s pathetic.’

  ‘Come on,’ Dorothy said. ‘For years, you needed her for every single thing, you were completely dependent on her. It’s hard to give that up, trust me.’

  Abi pouted.

  ‘How is she with your biological dad?’ Dorothy said.

  Abi’s body tensed. This was something maybe.

  ‘Does she try to turn you against him? That’s pretty common.’


  Abi coughed out a laugh. ‘I think she’s turning him against me.’

  Dorothy stroked a finger along Abi’s hand. ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘He doesn’t answer my calls anymore,’ Abi said. ‘Or when he does, he’s always away.’

  ‘He travels, though, right? With his job.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Abi said. ‘But he’s totally ghosting me.’

  ‘Ghosting?’

  Abi gave her a look like she was a child. ‘Not answering any messages or calls. Making me feel I don’t exist.’

  ‘It must be hard for him being away,’ Dorothy said. ‘I’m sure he cares.’

  Abi pulled her hand away from Dorothy’s, rubbed at her arm.

  ‘So you want to confront him?’ Dorothy said. ‘That’s why you’re here?’

  ‘I don’t believe he’s abroad,’ Abi said. ‘I want to see him, make him talk to me.’

  Dorothy looked at her, just as messed up as any other fourteen-year-old, still trying to find out what sort of person she is, where she comes from.

  ‘You don’t need him,’ Dorothy said. ‘You’re a smart, funny, passionate young woman.’

  The words bounced off Abi into the ether.

  ‘Go home, Abi, no good can come of this.’

  Abi shook her head. ‘Not until I see him.’

  ‘Your mum and stepdad are worried.’

  ‘If they were worried the police would’ve found me, not you. There’s been nothing on the news about me missing.’

  ‘They do care,’ Dorothy said, but her voice was unconvincing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I care,’ Dorothy said. ‘You can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘You can’t make me leave.’

  Dorothy sighed. ‘How about I tell your folks where you are.’

  She sat up, rubbed her hands on her joggers. ‘Don’t. Please.’

  ‘At least let me tell them you’re OK.’

  Abi fidgeted with her hands in her lap. ‘That won’t work. You’d have to tell them how you know.’

  ‘This isn’t fair on them.’

  ‘I’m not leaving here until I speak to my dad.’