Pilgrim Soul by Gordon Ferris Page A

him. When had that
become my instinct? I waited, rubbing my knuckles. He got on to his hands and knees and then sat back against the stained wall. He held his face and nose with one hand and leaned on the other.
    ‘You bloody bastard. You bastard you.’
    I picked up my notebook and pencil and put them away. I remembered my hat. I put it on and touched the brim to him.
    ‘Don’t worry about getting up. I’ll see myself out. Good morning, Mr Galdakis.’
    As I walked down the stairs and out into the fresh air I felt the familiar aftershock of the adrenalin. My heart rate slowed as if I’d got something out my system. I sucked in the oxygen
and decided to walk back to the newsroom to clear my thoughts, the first of which was how to explain to my readers that an interview had turned into a rammy. The second of which was to wonder
exactly what emotions Galdakis had revealed in this piece commissioned by Sandy. Remorse wasn’t one of them. Just raw, thuggish anger. Some men are born mean, some achieve meanness, some have
meanness thrust upon them. Galdakis ticked all three.
    My third thought was to wonder what Galdakis was hiding.

NINE
    S andy nabbed me as I walked past his glass-windowed office at the entrance to the newsroom. It faced Eddie Paton’s office, so that between
them they could cudgel or caress the reporters as we came and went. Sending us over the top in search of a scoop and bandaging us up on our return, mauled from the front line.
    ‘How did it go, Brodie?’ Sandy asked me.
    I told him. He looked at me for a while and shook his head.
    ‘I think we’ll not mention the small fact that you put the heid on him, Brodie. Ever since you joined us – and I’m not necessarily saying you’re the
cause
– it’s been mayhem around here.’
    ‘It’s the nature of the job. If you want a crime column you’re going to have to consort with criminals. They’re not nice people.’
    ‘Are you saying this fella, Galdakis, is a criminal?’
    ‘He killed a man. OK, it was a thief. But this wasn’t self-defence. He butchered him.’
    Sandy nodded. ‘Look, write it up and we’ll see what we can make of it. Drop it in, and I’ll peruse it. Then finish off the story by having a wee chat with the
pawnbroker.’
    ‘McGill?’
    ‘It started with him. It should end with him.’
    ‘That’s tricky, Sandy. Duncan Todd isn’t pressing charges. He prefers McGill on the outside. Finds him useful.’
    ‘Go and see him anyway. We want colour. Maybe he’s feeling remorse. Somebody should.’ He shook his long head. ‘Aboot something.’
    I wrote up my encounter with the angry knifeman without mentioning that the author had given the interviewee a Gorbals kiss. It might put off other people from being interviewed by me in future.
My reputation was colourful enough.
    I decided to leave my interview with McGill to the following day. It turned out to be a day too late.
    I had a restless night and was glad Sam had opted for her own room. My nightmares were bad enough company for me. Sam’s announcement that she was off to the Hamburg
trials had picked the scab off some of my more troubling memories.
    I woke groggy. Thursday morning began in confusion and descended into chaos. Sam had packed the night before and was ready for the taxi that would take her to Central Station and then down to
Euston. From there she’d be taken to RAF Hendon for the military flight to Hamburg.
    ‘I’ll be back in no time.’
    ‘For Christmas.’
    ‘You can start getting the decorations up.’
    There was a knock at the door.
    ‘Your taxi’s early,’ I said. Why was my heart suddenly pounding? It wasn’t me going. I opened the door. A woman stood on the step.
    ‘Hello,’ she said.
    Sam called from behind. ‘Oh, Isobel, it’s you! It’s lovely to see you again. Come in, come in. Douglas, this is Isobel Dunlop.’
    I’d forgotten about the new cleaner. Jutting shoulders on a wiry frame, a hook for a nose. A sparrowhawk whose