Everything She Forgot Read Free Page A

of the stranger’s palm against hers, and the sheer size of him crouched in the snow, holding his damaged hand to his chest. He had been hurt, she knew he had; she wanted to find him to make sure he got help.

CHAPTER 2
Big George
Friday, September 27, 1985
    B IG G EORGE GOT UP ON THE TABLE, PINT IN HAND, AND began a rendition of “Sweet Caroline.” He was six feet three with black hair, bright blue eyes, and longer eyelashes than his only sister, Patricia. He was the best looking of all the McLaughlins and had gotten away with murder for years because of it. He had been his mother’s favorite, and he could carry a song like she had, although it had been years since she had had anything to sing about.
    George was on his fourth pint and there was a sheen of glee in his eyes. The whole bar turned to him, clapping in time. The McLaughlins demanded attention, but usually that was enforced with the threat of great violence. Georgie Boy was different. Most people in the East End of Glasgow knew him and were wary of him because of his family, but those who knew him well said that George was a gentle giant. George’s father, Brendan, had called him soft, but then they didn’t come much harder than Brendan McLaughlin.
    George leaned on Tam Driscoll’s shoulder as he climbed down from his impromptu stage. An older man leaving the bar patted George’s back: “Look out, Neil Diamond.”
    â€œAway!” said George over his shoulder, his eyes smiling at the compliment.
    â€œYou ready for another, big man?” said Tam.
    George nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, and put his empty pint glass on the bar. By the time Tam was served, a table had become available at the periphery of the bar and, tired after his performance, George sat down and ran his hands through his hair.
    Tam had recently started working with George in the garage the McLaughlins ran, along the Shettleston Road. The garage was semi-legitimate, although cars were “cleaned” there. It was as close to the family business as George could bear to be. Tam was a mechanic and a good one, but had only taken the job because he had been out of work for nearly a year.
    â€œI don’t want to get involved,” he would whisper to George, his face and hands dark with engine grease, when George’s elder brother, Peter, visited, clasping and unclasping his gloved hands. Peter had taken over, years ago, after their father had disappeared, presumed dead.
    â€œMe neither,” George had reassured him.
    In the few weeks they had known each other George had been in the habit of sharing stories with Tam, as a mark of friendship and trust, but Tam had yet to share anything other than his time and his beer money with George.
    George understood Tam’s fear, and had decided to be patient. His father had made his name as a heavy for the top loan shark in Glasgow. Even now, in this bar, there would be at least two or three people who had been injured by the McLaughlins. One of the people clapping along to George’s song had been Giovanni DeLuca, who owned the chip shop on the corner. Just the sight of DeLuca in the crowd had made George forgeta line, although his audience thought it was the beer. He had watched Giovanni’s pale skeletal hand clapping against his other, strong brown one. At fourteen years old George had watched his father force Giovanni’s hand into the deep fat fryer.
    Tam walked slowly to their table, careful not to spill the beer. He was a full head shorter than George and fifteen years older, thin and wiry with gray hair cut short. He had taught George how to bleed an engine and how to change an exhaust. George, who had never been any good at school, found he loved learning about cars, and picked up quickly what Tam taught him. He had few friends and he had liked Tam instantly. It was as if Tam was a replacement father figure: benevolent, where Brendan, God rest his soul, had