Read Online Referendum by Campbell Hart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Campbell Hart
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Noir, Thrillers & Suspense
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for the 2014 Commonwealth Games. But he wasn’t interested in sporting success, rather a personal agenda that he was close to realising.
Junior insisted on training alone. Everyday he would put in the hours. Today he was out on the road, every mile taking him a step closer to his ultimate goal.
At home his life had been difficult. He had never felt that he fitted in, had no interest in marriage. Then, after an encounter at a party his life had changed. His sexuality was not something he had ever thought about, not until he had met Christian Ndo. The affair had been brief but intense. When they’d been found out he denied it but Christian hadn’t been so lucky. His body was found in a ditch, he had been badly beaten. The police never found who did it, but Junior knew it was his friend’s family. Being gay in Cameroon was illegal, and anyone proved to have been involved in a homosexual act faced five years in jail. It was a matter of time before Junior faced the wrath of the law, with or without his sporting celebrity. So he did what he did best and ran, ran and didn’t look back.
***
The glare of the light hurt Sandy’s eyes but the doctor didn’t hold back.
“Sit still Mr Stirrit; we need to know if you’re concussed.”
The comments rankled but Sandy submitted to the rest of the examination. He’d been taken to the A&E ward at the Western Infirmary where he’d been wheeled in past the waiting queue for priority treatment. A woman recoiled when she saw his face and it wasn’t until he finally saw his reflection that he realised why. Niall Murphy had done a good job on him. Aching all over from the assault, his face painted quite a picture. His right eye was cut between the brow and the lid, with a thick red welt exposing the flesh underneath. His other eye was bloodied and swollen, while his front two teeth had been knocked loose, they’d probably need to be taken out.
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing you on the telly any time soon, do you?”
Sandy didn’t care for the bedside manner; he couldn’t see the doctor’s badge and didn’t want to know his name. But he was right; Sandy knew he wouldn’t be able to work for several weeks, not until the wounds had healed. He was a well known face and he’d run the risk of becoming the news if people saw him like this. He cursed his stupidity at pushing so hard against Murphy; should have guessed he was connected. Then it struck him that the beating might be due to his questions about Donald. Did Ian Davidson tip him off? The questions raced through his brain as he tried to think about how to proceed. I need to speak to the Police.
John Arbogast arrived home early from his expedition to the Lake District. ‘Home’ was still something of a work in progress. After he’d split up with Rosalind Ying he had spent around a month sleeping on Chris Guthrie’s couch, until he’d been told to pack his bags. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on, more that a one bedroom flat which was already home to two people didn’t need three to make a happy family. Arbogast had big ideas about recreating his old place, the flat he’d rented with Rose, but so far he’d made no visible progress.
Home was a large room in a shared house. His bedfellows, if he could describe them like that, were fine for now, although he really needed his own space. He was staying in an old bed and breakfast on Renfrew Street, which had recently gone out of business. The owners lived in London and were moving back to convert the building back into a family home. It was big for two people, but in the meantime four wayward souls were helping to meet the mortgage as temporary lodgers while loans were sorted out and contractors secured.
Arbogast’s belongings were piled in a spare room. He’d been allowed to dump his stuff which saved on storage. The owners liked the fact that they had a policeman on site; they felt the property was safe. His room was bog standard B&B fare. A
Junior insisted on training alone. Everyday he would put in the hours. Today he was out on the road, every mile taking him a step closer to his ultimate goal.
At home his life had been difficult. He had never felt that he fitted in, had no interest in marriage. Then, after an encounter at a party his life had changed. His sexuality was not something he had ever thought about, not until he had met Christian Ndo. The affair had been brief but intense. When they’d been found out he denied it but Christian hadn’t been so lucky. His body was found in a ditch, he had been badly beaten. The police never found who did it, but Junior knew it was his friend’s family. Being gay in Cameroon was illegal, and anyone proved to have been involved in a homosexual act faced five years in jail. It was a matter of time before Junior faced the wrath of the law, with or without his sporting celebrity. So he did what he did best and ran, ran and didn’t look back.
***
The glare of the light hurt Sandy’s eyes but the doctor didn’t hold back.
“Sit still Mr Stirrit; we need to know if you’re concussed.”
The comments rankled but Sandy submitted to the rest of the examination. He’d been taken to the A&E ward at the Western Infirmary where he’d been wheeled in past the waiting queue for priority treatment. A woman recoiled when she saw his face and it wasn’t until he finally saw his reflection that he realised why. Niall Murphy had done a good job on him. Aching all over from the assault, his face painted quite a picture. His right eye was cut between the brow and the lid, with a thick red welt exposing the flesh underneath. His other eye was bloodied and swollen, while his front two teeth had been knocked loose, they’d probably need to be taken out.
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing you on the telly any time soon, do you?”
Sandy didn’t care for the bedside manner; he couldn’t see the doctor’s badge and didn’t want to know his name. But he was right; Sandy knew he wouldn’t be able to work for several weeks, not until the wounds had healed. He was a well known face and he’d run the risk of becoming the news if people saw him like this. He cursed his stupidity at pushing so hard against Murphy; should have guessed he was connected. Then it struck him that the beating might be due to his questions about Donald. Did Ian Davidson tip him off? The questions raced through his brain as he tried to think about how to proceed. I need to speak to the Police.
John Arbogast arrived home early from his expedition to the Lake District. ‘Home’ was still something of a work in progress. After he’d split up with Rosalind Ying he had spent around a month sleeping on Chris Guthrie’s couch, until he’d been told to pack his bags. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on, more that a one bedroom flat which was already home to two people didn’t need three to make a happy family. Arbogast had big ideas about recreating his old place, the flat he’d rented with Rose, but so far he’d made no visible progress.
Home was a large room in a shared house. His bedfellows, if he could describe them like that, were fine for now, although he really needed his own space. He was staying in an old bed and breakfast on Renfrew Street, which had recently gone out of business. The owners lived in London and were moving back to convert the building back into a family home. It was big for two people, but in the meantime four wayward souls were helping to meet the mortgage as temporary lodgers while loans were sorted out and contractors secured.
Arbogast’s belongings were piled in a spare room. He’d been allowed to dump his stuff which saved on storage. The owners liked the fact that they had a policeman on site; they felt the property was safe. His room was bog standard B&B fare. A
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