The Quiet Ones Page 7

  ‘No, Sophie, but it really wasn’t that good either, was it?’ Oonagh had done the same herself. Countless times. Brushed off misogynistic, sexual pressure as not being that bad. ‘The thing is, where do we draw the line?’ She meant it as a statement, wasn’t really expecting an answer.

  ‘But he didn’t actually… I mean, I feel terrible.’ Poor Sophie, feeling bad, feeling guilty, feeling like shit.

  ‘Trouble is, Sophe, guys like him never see themselves as sex pests. If they don’t leave you battered and bruised and dumped in a back court somewhere, then they’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Sophie relaxed slightly, gave a wee nod to let Oonagh know she agreed with her, then sipped her drink. ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘It’s a tough world, Sophie, and you need to choose your battles.’ Oonagh wished someone had told her that sooner. She felt as though she’d been fighting with someone or other her whole life.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Oonagh suddenly realised that Sophie looked upon her as the sensible older woman. ‘I don’t exactly know, if truth be told. I think it means, decide which fights you want to take on. Or maybe only take on the ones you know you’ll win.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’

  ‘I will from now on!’

  ‘D’you think Ross’ll be cross when he sees his car?’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have kicked the back door. Nearly broke my heel.’ They both burst out laughing. Oonagh thought for a moment. ‘Listen, Sophe, I’ll have a word with Alan about this. Ross needs to be—

  ‘No.’ Sophie reached out and grabbed her wrist. ‘Please don’t. Don’t tell anyone.’

  The thought of that little shit getting off with little more than a broken wing mirror was sticking in her throat. But it was Sophie’s call. ‘OK, but you need to be really strong the next time you see Ross. It’ll be hard, but hold your head high and be the consummate professional.’

  Sophie was nodding furiously, hanging on Oonagh’s every word. She had no idea Oonagh was winging it, as she did most days.

  12

  ‘Shit.’ Oonagh threw her phone down on the bed. It wasn’t a huge shock that Sarah Nugent was refusing to answer her calls. She decided to leave it for a day or two then turn up at her door. Despite the horror stories about Harry Nugent, less than a handful of men had come forward, none of whom were prepared to speak to the press. That much she’d managed to get out of Jim McVeigh. She could hardly blame them. Historical abuse was a flipping nightmare to prove, and sadly for men, the support just wasn’t there. They were expected to ‘man up’. Oonagh guessed that many of his victims would never speak out. Burying the trauma deep inside, the shame of the abuse burning whilst pretending that life goes on as normal. There was no way of telling how many men were affected. Could be thousands, even tens of thousands, given the amount of boys Nugent had come into contact with over the years. Oonagh couldn’t be certain, but guessed his wife had had her suspicions all along.

  If she could find at least one man who would go on the record, she could use that as the core for her programme. The support for men remained shockingly inadequate, she’d already intended to approach charities and government ministers for interviews. But she needed this one in the can first. The easiest place to start would probably be the summer camps. At least there would be a record of which boys attended. There was also enough press coverage that she might be able to recognise more than the handful that she’d seen earlier. There was nothing else for it other than to go down the list trying to find contact details for each one. Sophie could help, and the rest would be down to legwork and old fashioned door knocking – the type of thing she’d initially loved when she’d started out in journalism, but had quickly grown to hate when she’d realised how much she was intruding on people’s grief, their lives, their privacy.

  Oonagh considered the money she’d forked out for a decent voice coach and a presentation skills course all those years ago as a wise investment. Trainee journalists were being churned out of college at a rate of knots, and it was astonishing how little in-house training there still was in the Scottish media. She’d long recognised that to stand out from the crowd she’d need to hone her skills. That had helped her move up the ladder quicker than most – well, that and knowing how to exploit an opportunity. But her voice, which was now her trademark, and her ease in front of the camera had set her apart from the thousands of other hopeful young journalists battling to make it in the media. She’d taken out a loan and lived off her credit cards and overdraft for the best part of a year just to pay it off, but it hadn’t been long before she’d started to reap the benefits. Recently it had crossed her mind that a new set of tits and a course of Botox would probably be a better investment in the current climate.

  She bit the bullet and rang the number of one of the most famous boys on the list. George Alexander had been one of the country’s best loved players. In a game that cleaved through the heart of Glasgow with religious bigotry, Alexander was loved by both Catholics and Protestants alike. He’d been spotted and picked up by one of the big clubs down south before he could be affiliated to either one of his city’s native teams, then capped for Scotland. So he was loved by everyone. Oonagh had met him once or twice through the years. Whoever was in charge of managing his PR did a blinding job. Polite and courteous, he lived up to his nickname Gentle George. Admittedly a cliché, but sports pundits weren’t known for their prowess with words. One of the best things about working at the station was that Oonagh never had to do all the painstaking legwork of looking for contact details. Even the number of the most coveted politician, sports star or celebrity was in the system.

  He answered his phone somewhat gingerly. He clearly didn’t recognise the number, perhaps fearing it was yet another call trying to help him after his recent accident that wasn’t his fault, or to claim back all that PPI that he’d forked out for over the years. She’d met him a few times before, but they weren’t exactly on best mate territory yet. He recognised her name, and if he was suspicious of her call he didn’t show it in his voice. Oonagh didn’t come right out and say what she wanted to talk to him about – that wasn’t the sort of thing one blurted out in an initial phone call. Gentle George Alexander was now a sports pundit on talk radio, so was well used to handling interviews. He’d kept himself fit too, unlike many former footballers who’d crashed and burned so quickly after their career on the pitch was over.

  Oonagh kept the initial call very vague, said she was doing a piece on Glasgow boys made good and asked if he’d be up for an interview. He paused slightly before saying yes. There was no escaping the stories surrounding Nugent, but if he was suspicious about Oonagh’s motives he didn’t let on. He seemed less keen however, when she explained there wouldn’t be a fee. Here was a man as sharp off the pitch as he had been on it. Newspapers could pay through the nose for a decent interview. An exposé with banner headlines. Television and radio just weren’t like that. Contributor fees were usually pretty basic, and for someone already rolling in it amounted to no more than a decent coffee. But George Alexander was well versed in the workings of broadcasting, as Oonagh had gently reminded him, so he plumped for her buying him lunch instead.

  A flurry of adrenalin stirred inside; he was unlikely to reveal all to her, but over lunch, with a few glasses of wine, people often said more than they’d intended to. Not that she’d use anything in an underhand way, but he might give her a pointer as to where she could dig a little deeper, as so far she felt she’d been banging her head off a brick wall with this one.

  ‘OK, I’m free this Thursday and Friday, after that I’m booked solid for the next month.’

  Oonagh didn’t even bother to look at her diary, deciding in advance that whatever she had planned could be cancelled. ‘Fabulous, shall we say, Friday?’ It was usually easier to persuade someone to have a few extra drinks on a Friday afternoon. Thursdays could be tricky that way. ‘You name the place – where are you based?’

  ‘For
mby.’

  ‘Is that near Clydebank?’ Oonagh’s heart sank. She’d imagined him living somewhere a little more salubrious, and wondered if he wasn’t quite as successful as he appeared.

  ‘No, you’re thinking of Faifley.’ He sniggered, slightly more than was polite, then said, ‘Formby… near Southport…’ He was obviously waiting for some sort of recognition from Oonagh. ‘Just outside Liverpool?’

  Shit! ‘Oh, that Formby?’

  What a pain in the tonsils this was going to be. Liverpool was one of the hardest areas to get to from Glasgow. No direct flights and a train journey that could take up to four hours with two changes in between. Although the last time she’d been it had taken her almost seven hours as she’d drunk too much prosecco, fallen asleep and missed her connection at Wigan. She had no choice but to pitch up in Liverpool tomorrow, otherwise she’d need to get up too early on Friday morning.

  *

  Alexander was clearly doing all right for himself. House prices in Formby were not for the faint hearted and, although Oonagh was footing the bill, she’d asked him to book the table for lunch. Oonagh was no stranger to a decent eatery, but even she had to admit to being impressed. Understated elegance was how it would most probably be described; she tried not to look too gobsmacked as the waiter took her coat and led her to where he was sitting. Without looking at the menu she knew this was going to cost a bloody fortune.

  Alexander stood up as she approached, clearly a regular here, she let him choose the wine, pandering to his male ego. Her heart sank just that little bit further when his eyes glanced to the bottom of the list and she wanted to wipe the smug smile off the waiter’s face when he nodded in agreement. No house white for him. What with the rail fare, the overnight stay and now lunch at this poncey place, this meeting was costing more than her first car. She hoped her smile passed as genuine and started to actually enjoy his company. A bit. Until the conversation got round to Nugent and the summer camp. Then Gentle George Alexander froze slightly.

  ‘You must be devastated at what’s emerging. I mean you, like so many other boys in Scotland, have so much to thank Harry Nugent for,’ Oonagh edged a stray crumb back into the corner of her mouth with her pinkie. ‘He was such an inspiration, really, a hero, and now this.’ Daft-manning it was second nature to Oonagh – she found it easy to get her opponents on the back foot before pushing them against the ropes. But Alexander was no adversary. He’d agreed to chat, that was all, but as soon as she’d seen him that day she’d realised this was not a man about to open up and pour his heart out to a stranger. Here was a man who had worked at his public image for the best part of five decades and wasn’t going to show anyone his Achilles heel now. Certainly not a daft wee lassie like Oonagh O’Neil. He hadn’t said as much, but Oonagh was used to the patronising way the old-school sport’s pundits regarded her.

  ‘Don’t remember much about the man, to be honest.’ George eased back, slinging one arm casually across the chair. His years off the pitch had done nothing to reduce his stature, his shirt straining very slightly across the muscles on his shoulders and biceps.

  ‘He’d had a run-in with Jack Nesbit, that was all very strange…’ Oonagh waited for a response, but she’d have a long bloody wait. He was polishing off a ninety quid bottle of wine and eyeing the waiter to bring them another one. She’d need to strike soon, before she ended up bankrupt here.

  ‘George I need to ask…’ He looked as though he knew what was coming. A tiny muscle twitched along his jaw. ‘Did you ever have your suspicions about Nugent?’

  ‘No.’ His answer came back too fast and too certain. He gestured to the waiter just to pour the wine, dispensing with the pantomime of tasting it first.

  ‘Look, George, I’ll level with you, this is now way past the unsubstantiated rumour stage.’ She told him about her meeting with Jack Nesbit. Let him know exactly what he’d said.

  The waiter approached their table, but Alexander dismissed him with just a slight gesture of his hand. ‘Listen to me. D’you think for one moment I was stupid enough to believe the pile of shite you were spouting?’

  Oonagh took a sip of wine, her mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘In the midst of all this, you think I believed you were actually doing a story on local boys made good?’

  The colour burned through her cheeks, what the fuck had she been thinking? ‘Why did you agree to meet me then?’

  ‘I wanted to know what your game was.’ The same slight hand gesture told the waiter it was now OK for him to pour the rest of the wine. ‘And what I have to say is best said face to face.’

  Oonagh hadn’t assumed that this was ever going to be an easy conversation to have, but she’d reckoned that in a public place, with a man whose reputation was his lifeblood, she was on relatively safe ground. Just showed how wrong you could be.

  George had bypassed the sweet trolley, but was by all accounts partial to a nice piece of Cheddar. ‘Listen to me.’ he sliced through the wedge on the board, not faltering for a moment. ‘If I ever catch you saying that I was some sort of pathetic victim. If you even suggest that queer touched me up…’ he popped the piece of cheese into his mouth, chewed twice and then licked his lips ‘… I’ll have your fucking head on a plate.’ He spoke very quietly, without a trace of aggression.

  She tried to swallow but her throat had tightened, ‘George, being a victim of abuse doesn’t make you…’

  ‘Drop it.’

  She knew she was adding to his pain but couldn’t back down now. ‘Did you know he was abusing those boys?’

  But he butted in before she could finish. ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘I’m not saying he did it to you. I’m just asking, did you know?’

  He leaned over, just inches from her face. ‘Fucking drop it. And never contact me again.’

  Gentle George Alexander was a big guy, but still surprisingly light on his feet. He swung out of his chair and left the table without giving her a second glance.

  ‘Please just tell me,’ her voice trailed after him. ‘Tell me what you know.’ But he was already out of the door, his silence telling her everything.

  13

  Oonagh pressed her finger on the bell for a second time, letting it ring for a little longer this time, refusing to give up. She rang a third time, then rapped her knuckles on the door. She’d been waiting so long she actually jumped when it eventually opened. The guy on the other side draped himself across the door and looked far from impressed.

  ‘What?’

  She recognised him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place him. Looked as if he might have been a boxer in his day. There was something about that flat faced, broken nosed appearance that made all ex-fighters look the same to her. Oonagh peered over his shoulder. ‘I’d like to see Sarah, please.’ She stood on tiptoe to get a better view. ‘Is she in?’ The ground floor of the house was open plan. The vast hallway had a wall of glass that opened up to the back of the house where someone doing a remarkably good impression of Sarah Nugent was perched on the edge of a leather sofa.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Shit, she had no time for these stupid games. ‘I think you know who I am.’

  There was a genuine look of confusion on his face. ‘Eh, I don’t actually.’

  Oonagh felt a slight blush rise through her cheeks and was glad of the cool November breeze as she told the guy her name. He closed the door and left her standing on the step before going off to check if the merry widow was at home to guests that day.

  The police had allowed Sarah Nugent back into her home and Oonagh had to admit to being somewhat impressed that she’d actually chosen to spend a single moment in a house where her abiding memory must be that of her husband swinging from the balcony. Forensics had clearly done their job, and as Oonagh was ushered through to the living room there wasn’t a trace of the horror that had taken place there. But she could feel the spectre of Harry Nugent as she passed through the hall. Imagined his dead body swinging from the banister a
bove.

  ‘Is that your…?’ Oonagh was about to ask if the guy with the broken-looking face was her minder.

  ‘My brother, yes.’ The penny dropped. The guy was Chaz Walker, had been almost famous in his day. Handy with his fists, not a bad fighter, but not good enough to go further than local heats. ‘But then I’m surprised you don’t know that already, given how much you like to pry into other people’s affairs.’

  Oonagh was a bit surprised herself. She’d obviously taken her eye off the ball for a moment. Sarah remained standing, clutching a wine glass the size of a small fish bowl. She caught Oonagh glancing at the clock; it wasn’t yet midday. ‘Don’t judge me,’ she said, tipping back the last mouthful.

  Oh, you’ve got me so wrong, thought Oonagh, dying for some herself, certain that the hair of the dog would settle her more than the two paracetamol she’d taken before leaving the house.

  ‘How’re you bearing up?’

  ‘How am I bearing up?’ Sarah flopped down onto a leather armchair. ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve asking me that.’

  A copy of a newspaper with Harry’s face blazoned across the front page lay crumpled on the floor beside the settee. A somewhat blurred picture of Sarah, looking glamorous and giggly at an award ceremony, was inset beside it. The mud was well and truly being slung. ‘Nugent ruined my life’ was the headline. It was now open season on Harry Nugent; he was trending on Twitter and an online support group had already been set up for his victims.

  ‘Sarah…’ Oonagh had to reason with her ‘… this had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You’re the only journalist I spoke to.’ Her voice was quiet now. The tears catching in the back of her throat.

  ‘Is there anything, anything at all, in that paper that alludes to what we talked about?’

  Sarah sniffed, wiping her cheek with her fingers. She shook her head but said nothing. Oonagh noticed she was no longer wearing her wedding ring.