The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

Glasgow 1967

PC McLeod entered the close in one of Govan’s less salubrious corners, noting the graffiti penned on the wall by some wag, as he did so; ‘If pigs could fly Orkney Street would be an airport.’  ‘Very good, ‘ he mumbled to himself, ‘no one likes the cops until you need them.’ He walked to the first-floor landing and knocked on the door he was looking for. A pale-faced boy of around ten who wore a Celtic shirt and navy-blue shorts, opened the door slightly and regarded him in silence. ‘Is your mummy in?’ the tall policeman asked in a friendly voice. The child muttered, ‘haud oan’ and closed the door. Two minutes limped past before the door opened again, a thin woman with bad perm and horn-rimmed glasses peered at him. ‘Sorry tae keep ye son, I couldnae find my teeth. Come in.’

PC McLeod followed her up the hallway and into the living room where three children sat playing with a variety of toys. One of them looked at him and said, ‘ye found ma da yet?’ The thin woman barked at the child, ‘shut it you. Away ben the room an geez peace.’ The child tutted and returned to his toys. Mary McGuigan invited the young policeman to sit down on the couch and sat facing him on an armchair. ‘Mrs McGuigan,’ PC McLeod began, ‘you reported your husband, Desmond, missing yesterday morning?’ She nodded, ‘Aye, said he was goin’ doon the Govan Arms for a few pints and never came back. I’ve been roon aw the doors. Naebody’s seen him. He’s no with any of his cronies and I’m getting worried aboot him.’ The policeman looked at his notebook, ‘he’s not done anything like this before?’ She shrugged, ‘aye, the odd New Year he goes oan a bender but no in May.’ The policeman continued, ‘he has no friends he might be staying with?’ She shook her head, ‘naw son, I’ve tried everybody he knows. He’s just vanished.’ The policeman pursed his lips as he approached the problem from a more delicate angle, ‘Mrs McGuigan, do you think it’s possible he has been seeing another woman?’ Her face cracked into a smile, ‘Dessie? Pick up a wumin? He couldnae pick up flu in an epidemic.’ The policeman suppressed a smile at this. ‘Right, we’ll keep looking for him but keep us notified  if you hear anything.’

As the policeman stood to leave, the ten-year-old who had opened the door to him watched carefully and smiled to himself that the Jaffa Cake he had placed strategically on the couch was stuck to the back of his trousers. Mary McGuigan saw him out the door, noticing the biscuit stuck to him but saying nothing. She closed the door quietly behind him. Dessie had been missing for almost 48 hours now and her initial annoyance had turned to worry.  She walked into the living room and looked at the children playing, ‘whoever put that chocolate biscuit oan the couch, I hope yer proud of yourself. That bizzy is trying tae find yer da and noo he’s away through the wine alley looking as if he’s shat himself!’ The children shook with silent laughter as she scolded them. She shook her head, ‘Daft, like yer feckin da, wherever he is!’

Mary McGuigan walked miles that day looking for any sign of her man. She tried bars, betting shops and asked anybody she knew if they’d seen Dessie but it was all to no avail. When she returned to her home, she saw the police car parked outside and her heart sank a little. Neighbours watched from behind curtains as she entered the close and found PC McLeod and another officer at her door. ‘Mrs McGuigan, glad we bumped into you. There’s been a development.’ She glanced at her neighbour’s door, knowing old Mrs Bell would be glued to her spyhole. ‘Come in,’ she said, keeping her voice steady, ‘the weans are at their granny’s.’

PC McLeod declined to sit when invited and said to her in a quiet voice, ‘Mrs McGuigan, we fished a body out of the Clyde and were wondering, if you feel up to having a look? The age seems similar to your husband but it might not be him. It just allows us to eliminate this chap from our enquiries if it isn’t Desmond.’  She unconsciously covered her mouth with her hand, ‘can we do this now, before the weans come back?’ PC McLeod nodded.

As they left the close and walked to the Police car, a local teenager shouted, ‘that you huckled, Mary? Ye done Dessie in?’ She glanced up, ‘shut it, Francis or I’ll tell yer maw wit ye get up tae in that dookit.’ The teenager’s face reddened and he said no more. Instead, he turned and headed through the close on the other side of the street. There were some magazines in his dookit he thought he’d best dispose of. As the police car drove off, Mary McGuigan said a quiet prayer to herself.

Before the sheet was pulled down on the cadaver pulled from the Clyde, Mary McGuigan saw the left arm protruding and said, ‘that’s no Dessie.’ The policeman looked at her, ‘how can you be sure?’ She pointed at the tattoo on the forearm which showed a man in 18^th century garb, on a white horse. ‘Mer chance of the pope being a Hindu than my Dessie having King Billy oan his arm.’ The two policemen glanced at each other with a look Mary read as saying they had made an arse of themselves.

Thursday dawned with still no news of Dessie McGuigan. Mary got the children ready and walked them to their granny's on what was a blustery but bright spring day. As she neared Paisley Road, a rather annoying woman she knew to be fond of her drink approached her, ‘morning Mary, I’m sorry tae hear aboot yer Dessie.’ Mary shrugged, ‘och, he’ll show up soon enough, Maggie.’ The woman’s face looked doubtful and after more than three days, Mary wasn’t as certain as she sounded. ‘I’ll say a wee prayer for him,’ the woman continued, ‘and if he’s pan breed, I’ll forget the fiver he owes me,’ Mary McGuigan looked at the woman who had said such an insensitive thing as if she was doing her a big favour. As the children ran in their granny's close, she turned to Maggie and said in a quiet but steely voice, ‘Maggie, dae me a favour and get yerself tae fuck.’

The day was a long one as Mary busied herself about the house. There was no news from the police and each hour that passed made a happy resolution to her problem less likely. When the children returned from Dessie's mother's house they rushed excitedly to the television. ‘Get it oan, ma! The game’s starting!’ Mary had little interest in football though Dessie had infected the three boys with his passion for Celtic. Who would take them to Celtic Park now? She wondered. As she prepared the supper, she could hear the roars and groans from her boys and from neighbours who were all glued to their TVs. Glancing out into the street, she was surprised to see it completely deserted. It seemed everyone apart from a bemused and lonely looking dog was inside watching the football.

She placed the plates of food on the floor beside her sons who barely took their eyes from the screen as they ate. At one point Celtic scored a goal and they screamed and hugged each other like demented dwarves. Mary watched them, unable to share their joy as the seed of worry in her chest was weighing her down. When Celtic scored again, her boys fell upon each other and rolled across the carpet like delirious Siamese triplets. As the match ended, she smiled a little. Celtic had won, and at least the boys were happy. She watched as Billy McNeil hoisted a heavy looking big trophy into the air.

The camera panned below at the thousands of fans who had invaded the field. Her body froze. ‘Dessie!’ It was him! She’d know that toothless grin anywhere. She rushed to the tv as her boys looked at her in shock, the camera panned on the crowd again and this time the three McGuigan boys saw it too. ‘Da! It’s my da!’ They three children hugged their mother and they all fell to the floor in a bundle of joy and relief. How the hell Dessie McGuigan had got to Lisbon with no passport and precious little money would be explained in the fullness of time and Mary would decide upon his return if he would be welcomed home with a hug or a slap, but for now she was just relieved to see that all was well. Her man would be coming home to her.