avoidance. I'm back now and the phone is still there, looking at me, waiting for me to pick it up.
Sitting in silent judgement, it reminds me of my first wife.
Glance over at the recently installed coffee machine, something which they've done in an attempt to stop us all constantly trooping across the road to Costa. That, and I expect they're hoping it brings in some income which they can use to fund policing in this area, what with the government much closer to bankruptcy than anyone cares to admit.
From the coffee machine, I turn my glance round to Taylor as I'm aware he's still staring at me.
'You have a look about you,' he says.
'Just had an epiphany.'
Morrow looks up. Sure, you can ignore a guy when he sits down opposite you, but much tougher to disregard an epiphany announcement.
'Jesus,' mutters Taylor.
I shake my head, and stare off across the room, trying to capture what it is that talking to the toilet guy has made me realise. Though, was it even a realisation? There was just something about him. The simplicity of it. The ease with which he discussed his life. I don't think I've ever spoken to anyone who seemed so much at peace with how he lived. And he cleans toilets.
'Bored now,' says Taylor, when I take more than ten seconds to find the right words. 'Suicide, with a hint of potential murder, up in the public park. You might as well come along. If you can conjure up the right amount of poetry and drama, you can tell me about your dumb-ass epiphany on the way. We're walking, by the way. Nice day. Autumnal.'
Morrow watches us go and then once more bows his head to the paperwork.
4
––––––––
W e're at the bottom of the public park. Down by the large pond with three separate streams running into it. Came here a lot over the summer when I was off work. Sitting in amongst the trees. Getting used to things again. Thinking. Above us and behind us, through the trees, is the Old Kirk, the spire visible between the bare branches of the oaks.
Down here, set in the grass, is a plaque commemorating the Cambuslang Wark, a time when the local minister rallied the troops behind God. God, and all that. 1742, it says. Apparently thirty thousand people would gather in this place to listen. I used to sit on the bench here and try to imagine what that looked like.
We've come to get some perspective. There is a woman hanging by the neck from the footbridge at the top of the dip, where the footpath is taken high across the stream that runs through the gully.
There are a few of our lot around, including the pathologist, Balingol, waiting for the body to be cut down, something which is imminent. The area has been cordoned off, and already every inch photographed and examined. There are a few spectators at the edge of the cordon, and a couple of officers nearby trying to make sure that no cynical bastard is uploading the investigation and the cutting down of the poor deceased directly onto YouTube.
The woman is dressed in a light brown coat. The whole scene, horribly melancholic and grim, a sight to depress the crap out of even the most upbeat toilet cleaner, has the edge taken from it by the bizarre sight of the woman having a pair of large, feathered wings attached to the back of her coat. Clumsily attached, too, barely holding on.
We'd stood on the bridge looking down at the woman for a while, and now we've been down below, looking back up at her for some ten minutes.
'You ever come here?' asks Taylor, breaking a long silence.
'Yep. Nice walk, up the gully, round the top, back down to the football fields. Not long, but on a sunny day, it's all right.'
'A lot of people around?'
'The usual array of dog walkers and runners. You?'
He thinks about it for a while, eventually says, 'There was a mugging a few years ago, was up here for that. Guy was in a coma for a while. Haven't been since.'
'Hmm,' I say.
The water cooler chat of your average police officers. A guy in a coma is no more interesting than a
Sitting in silent judgement, it reminds me of my first wife.
Glance over at the recently installed coffee machine, something which they've done in an attempt to stop us all constantly trooping across the road to Costa. That, and I expect they're hoping it brings in some income which they can use to fund policing in this area, what with the government much closer to bankruptcy than anyone cares to admit.
From the coffee machine, I turn my glance round to Taylor as I'm aware he's still staring at me.
'You have a look about you,' he says.
'Just had an epiphany.'
Morrow looks up. Sure, you can ignore a guy when he sits down opposite you, but much tougher to disregard an epiphany announcement.
'Jesus,' mutters Taylor.
I shake my head, and stare off across the room, trying to capture what it is that talking to the toilet guy has made me realise. Though, was it even a realisation? There was just something about him. The simplicity of it. The ease with which he discussed his life. I don't think I've ever spoken to anyone who seemed so much at peace with how he lived. And he cleans toilets.
'Bored now,' says Taylor, when I take more than ten seconds to find the right words. 'Suicide, with a hint of potential murder, up in the public park. You might as well come along. If you can conjure up the right amount of poetry and drama, you can tell me about your dumb-ass epiphany on the way. We're walking, by the way. Nice day. Autumnal.'
Morrow watches us go and then once more bows his head to the paperwork.
4
––––––––
W e're at the bottom of the public park. Down by the large pond with three separate streams running into it. Came here a lot over the summer when I was off work. Sitting in amongst the trees. Getting used to things again. Thinking. Above us and behind us, through the trees, is the Old Kirk, the spire visible between the bare branches of the oaks.
Down here, set in the grass, is a plaque commemorating the Cambuslang Wark, a time when the local minister rallied the troops behind God. God, and all that. 1742, it says. Apparently thirty thousand people would gather in this place to listen. I used to sit on the bench here and try to imagine what that looked like.
We've come to get some perspective. There is a woman hanging by the neck from the footbridge at the top of the dip, where the footpath is taken high across the stream that runs through the gully.
There are a few of our lot around, including the pathologist, Balingol, waiting for the body to be cut down, something which is imminent. The area has been cordoned off, and already every inch photographed and examined. There are a few spectators at the edge of the cordon, and a couple of officers nearby trying to make sure that no cynical bastard is uploading the investigation and the cutting down of the poor deceased directly onto YouTube.
The woman is dressed in a light brown coat. The whole scene, horribly melancholic and grim, a sight to depress the crap out of even the most upbeat toilet cleaner, has the edge taken from it by the bizarre sight of the woman having a pair of large, feathered wings attached to the back of her coat. Clumsily attached, too, barely holding on.
We'd stood on the bridge looking down at the woman for a while, and now we've been down below, looking back up at her for some ten minutes.
'You ever come here?' asks Taylor, breaking a long silence.
'Yep. Nice walk, up the gully, round the top, back down to the football fields. Not long, but on a sunny day, it's all right.'
'A lot of people around?'
'The usual array of dog walkers and runners. You?'
He thinks about it for a while, eventually says, 'There was a mugging a few years ago, was up here for that. Guy was in a coma for a while. Haven't been since.'
'Hmm,' I say.
The water cooler chat of your average police officers. A guy in a coma is no more interesting than a
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