Ross The Weekenders

The dark, epic Scottish mystery - first in a NEW series
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-916788-31-2
Verlag: Orenda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 320 Seiten

Reihe: The Raskine House Trilogy

The deaths of a series of young Eastern European women in Glasgow leads to a stately home in the Scottish countryside, and back to the Second World War, where a group of young soldiers made their own, shocking rules... Saltire Prize shortlisted author David F. Ross returns with an extraordinary, dark mystery - first in a new series. `A thoroughly researched and well imagined historical mystery with echoes of David Peace´ Guardian `A novel of real ambition and verve ... ranges from wartime Italy to sixties Glasgow to explore the past's dark hold upon the present. Harrowing and compelling in equal measure, this is David F. Ross at the top of his game´ Liam McIlvanney `A masterpiece from one of Glasgow's finest authors ... epic in scale but told through the deeply personal accounts of its luckless, damaged characters. Told with a wit as sharp as any razor´ Callum McSorley `Righteous anger drives us through the narrative at a ferocious rate ... All of Ross's novels so far have been accomplished works, but The Weekenders is certainly one of the most compelling, with the dynamism of a thriller and the power of a stirring sermon´ Herald Scotland __________ Glasgow, 1966: Stevie 'Minto' Milloy, former star footballer-turned-rookie reporter, finds himself trailing the story of a young Eastern European student whose body has been found on remote moorland outside the city. How did she get there from her hostel at the Sovereign Grace Mission, and why does Stevie find obstacles at every turn? Italy, 1943: As the Allies fight Mussolini's troops, a group of young soldiers are separated from their platoon, and Glaswegian Jamesie Campbell, his newfound friend Michael McTavish at his side, finds himself free to make his own rules... Glasgow, 1969: Courtroom sketch artist Donald 'Doodle' Malpas is shocked to discover that his new case involves the murder of a teenage Lithuanian girl he knows from the Sovereign Grace Mission. Why hasn't the girl's death been reported? And why is a young police constable suddenly so keen to join the mission? No one seems willing to join the dots between the two cases, and how they link to Raskine House, the stately home in the Scottish countryside with a dark history and even darker present - the venue for the debauched parties held there by the rich and powerful of the city who call themselves 'The Weekenders'. Painting a picture of a 1960s Glasgow in the throes of a permissive society, pulled apart by religion, corruption, and a murderous Bible John stalking the streets, The Weekenders is a snapshot of an era of turmoil - and a terrifying insight into the mind of a ruthless criminal... __________ `An alchemical epic that flies through decades while managing to remain deeply grounded in real lives and the battle for truth. Bravo!´ Ewan Morrison `This fiction is furious. David F. Ross goes deep and dark, in an attempt to understand the criminal mind ... [and] writes with a righteous anger as he examines the evil that men do´ Alistair Braidwood, Scots Whay Hae `David Ross has a seemingly natural gift for pungently memorable phrasing and dialogue that feels you're listening in rather than reading´ Damian Barr `Stark, uncompromising and gritty, David F. Ross takes us to a dark place that is no easy weekend away´ Douglas Skelton `Excruciating vulnerability meets the harsh daily realities of sixties' Glasgow and the brutal machismo of its poisonous, smoke-filled institutions. Told with a wit as sharp as any razor, David F. Ross's style has been honed to perfection´ Callum McSorley `A gripping tale of secrets and excess, and a stylish, mesmerising thriller, boldly delivered in Ross' signature style´ George Paterson

David F. Ross was born in Glasgow in 1964 and has lived in Kilmarnock for over 30 years. He is a graduate of the Mackintosh School of Architecture at Glasgow School of Art, an architect by day, and a hilarious social-media commentator, author and enabler by night. His debut novel The Last Days of Disco was shortlisted for the Authors Club Best First Novel Award, and optioned for the stage by the Scottish National Theatre. All five of his novels have achieved notable critical acclaim and There's Only One Danny Garvey, published in 2021 by Orenda Books, was shortlisted for the prestigious Saltire Society Prize for Scottish Fiction Book of the Year. David lives in Ayrshire.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Ross, David F.

Leseproben

EPISODE TWO:

She Said, She Said (1966)

Stevie hopes for a reconciliation – Denice Milloy delivers some shocking news – Geordie McCracken crosses Stevie’s path.

26th July

A tune he can’t get out of his head.

Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain,

Now the dark days are done and the bright days are here…

If only.

Stevie is nervous. His palms are moist. He pulls at the top button of his shirt. He loosens his tie. He checks his watch frequently. Tapping its face with an impatient finger. Furtively glancing towards the door. Fidgeting with the salt cellar. A dense cloud of cologne hanging over him. It’s a show for someone important. A woman. And he’s not sure she will turn up.

‘Get ye another tea, love?’ asks the waitress. She’s been watching him.

‘Eh … aye, aw’right.’

This will be his third. The waitress knows. She’s seen enough young men stood up by a female to recognise the signs. She decides: one more cuppa. On the house. And then she’s going to tell him, Look, son, she’s no’ comin’.

But by the time she returns, the young man has been joined at his table. If anything, though, he looks more nervous now. The waitress waits, allowing them time to talk.

‘Ye look…’

‘Nice?’ Denice smiles.

‘Well, aye. Different,’ says Stevie.

She does. Something – or someone – has changed her. Her hair’s longer. Darker. Cut straight. Subtle make-up, but heavier on the mascara. She’s wearing a short, pale-blue raincoat. Buckle tied across her middle. The Biba dress or skirt she’s presumably wearing underneath is so mini it can’t be seen. Pale-blue matching shoes with a tiny heel. She is fashionable. Stylish. Like Cathy McGowan or Twiggy. Although that doesn’t mark her out as different. Not nowadays, when it seems that all young women look to Mary Quant for direction. He means different from when she was with him. The gold band missing from her finger the clearest indication.

She leans across to kiss him on the cheek. The whisky whiff hits her.

‘Dutch courage?’ she smiles.

‘Could say, aye,’ he replies.

‘What’ll ye have, hen?’ asks the waitress. She sees his new companion is nervous too.

‘Em … a tea please? No milk.’

‘Right ye are, love.’ The waitress leaves them to whatever it is that is unnerving them.

Stevie flips open the engraved cigarette holder. Offers Denice one.

‘Oh, you’ve still got that,’ she says.

‘Aye.’

‘Thought you’d chucked them?’

‘Aye, ah have,’ he replies, her importuning for him to stop being one good thing that stuck. He lights the one she puts in her mouth. ‘Knew you hadn’t though.’

She rolls her eyes. She turns her head to the side but keeps her gaze fixed on him. She blows the smoke away. It wafts. Rises. Clings to a formerly white ceiling.

‘How’ve ye been, Stevie?’

‘Aye. Good. Ah’m good.’ He doesn’t ask her the same question. ‘Been workin’ on a murder case.’

‘Ye have not!’ She says it like a proud mother. ‘Well, that’s excitin’.’

‘Aye. Mibbe. Eveythin’s gone a bit cold, though, this last week.’

He fidgets. She clasps and then unclasps her hands on the table in front of him. There’s an awkward silence until she finally breaks it.

‘Ah saw the articles ye’ve written for the Star. They’re great. Everybody in the office said so.’

An ambulance speeds up Victoria Road. Siren blaring. They both turn to look at the diversion.

‘Never a good sign,’ says Stevie.

‘No … it’s not. Hope whoever’s in it is fine,’ she says. Then: ‘It’s great that the job’s working out for ye. Ye always wanted to be a writer, remember?’

‘Hmm.’

‘All those book ideas ye had.’

‘Aye.’

The waitress returns. ‘A black tea. Here ye are, hen.’

Both are glad of her interruption. Wishing they could get past the pointless small talk. Wishing they could begin again. Stevie especially.

‘Look Denice…’

He pauses. He thinks of the scenarios he’s imagined since she called him a week ago, agreeing to meet. The optimism Alf’s counsel has built. The words he rehearsed in his head last night. The sentences he wrote. But with her here, sat in front of him, they’ve all evaporated.

They’ve both put on a little weight. But while she carries it well, he doesn’t. He needs her guiding him. Looking after him. He didn’t realise it until she was gone. He wants to tell her how much he misses her. How the time passing since his injury has changed him. How lonely he is. How much he wants her to come back. To give their relationship another chance. To put the past behind them.

‘Stevie—’

‘We made mistakes—’

‘Stevie. I’m pregnant.’

An uppercut lands. His guard was down. He didn’t see it coming. He’s struggling to recover. Head swimming in watery images. The room starts spinning. He grips the table’s edge.

Six years ago, almost to the day, they sat here in the Queens Café. Holding hands. Their first date. Both anxiously sipping cups of tea, then as now. The Curzon afterwards, to see Psycho. A full cinema seated before the film started. No rolling screenings. No-one allowed to arrive in the middle of a showing. Ramping up the tension. That unprecedented audience reaction. Denice screaming. Whispering that she’d never shower again. Baths all the way! Cuddling into him. Her heart pounding through her cardigan. Her perfume weaving its spell. Then as now.

‘Stevie…’

‘Aye. What?’ He swallows hard.

‘Did ye hear me? I’m pregnant.’ She speaks quietly. Trying to reach for compassion. She knows how badly he will take this. Their inability to conceive was the wedge that drove them apart. The arguments. The desperation. The expectations of friends and family.

When will we be hearin’ the patter of tiny fitba boots, then?

Well-meaning. But brutal when they don’t know the truth.

Ach … Stevie’s career. We don’t know where it’ll take us. The schools, ye know? Ye have to think carefully about these things.

For years, this was Denice’s mantra. Repeated so often, it might as well have been tattooed on her forehead to save the bother. Eventually people stopped asking. The only person who really cared was Stevie’s mum. Wanted them settled. After she and his dad died, things went downhill fast. Stevie spent more time in the pub after games. More time with other men. Reinforcing a false masculinity. Unable to cope with his grief. Unable to confide in anyone. Bottling it all up. The realisation that he was somehow less of a man if he couldn’t provide his wife with children.

What kinda man is that, eh?

He clung to the selfish hope that the problem was Denice’s. But here she is proving it’s not her. It’s him. It must always have been him. No-one is in his corner. He wants to know who the father is. But what difference would that make now?

She sees the change. His fingers ball up. Make tight fists. But not in rage. Digging fingernails into his palms to distract from thoughts that will bring tears.

‘Everythin’ alright?’ The waitress is good at reading body language.

‘We’re fine, thanks,’ says Denice. ‘Maybe another tea? I’d like another tea. Stevie, d’ye want another—’

‘No.’ Shut down.

The ref steps in.

A mandatory count.

Denice looks at the waitress. She shrugs almost imperceptibly. But the waitress sees it. Equally imperceptibly, she raises eyebrows in response. Female sixth sense.

‘Comin’ right up, love.’

The intervention works. The air has gone out of him.

‘Whose is it?’ Stevie mumbles. What other question is there?

‘That’s not any of your business.’

‘How’s it no’? Course it is.’

‘We’re not together anymore.’

‘We’re still bloody married!’

‘In name only, Stevie. Come on.’

‘Where’s yer ring?’

...