Page 77 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter sixty

M artin Hodgson, despite repeated warnings that libel law was not his forte, cast a weary eye over the Scottish Post article the next day.

Daniel, meanwhile, had spent a thoroughly miserable evening envisioning Civil Recovery Unit officers turning up at his door, brandishing seizure warrants and demanding he hand over the business.

Holed up in the one-bedroom flat Holly had found for him on Wilton Street close to the River Kelvin—sparsely furnished, the walls bare—he fielded calls from various people, none of them bringing good news.

Trish was first. She insisted her brother had been unfairly targeted, then dissolved into hiccupping sobs as she confessed how much money he’d given her to buy the Paisley Road West house back in the nineties.

“I’m sure you tink this serves me right!” she said, enough of her Irish accent lingering to twist think into tink . “What I deserve for taking money from a criminal while preaching at you about leaving your wife and committing adultery!”

Daniel shut his eyes and drummed his free hand against his thigh. “No, Mum. I don’t. And I’m sure your house is safe.”

The rest of the conversation blurred—words tumbling over each other, some sharp with indignation, others oddly placed, emphasis landing where it shouldn’t. When she finally paused, he seized his chance.

“Mum, I need to go.”

He hung up to a chorus of protests.

The supermarket buyer called next. The retailer’s external marketing team had flagged the article—part of their routine monitoring of newspapers and websites for brand risks.

A store built on family values and a wholesome reputation couldn’t afford to be associated with someone even potentially linked to organised crime.

She would need to escalate the matter to the high heid yins and get back to him.

Online, the reaction was swift and brutal.

The comments section had already declared a verdict.

Shane O’Malley was a wrong ’un, and anything connected to him should be seized immediately.

Some of the vitriol had found its way to Daniel.

Snide remarks about how Stuffed! was overrated and overpriced.

A supposed victim claiming they’d contracted severe food poisoning from a prawn sandwich purchased from one of his vans at T in the Park four years ago.

“Fuck you, pal,” he muttered, fingers twitching over the keyboard, ready to fire back an expletive-ridden reply.

But then Joe’s voice rang in his head, clear as day. A firm but easy-going hand on his shoulder. Mate, ye dinnae feed the trolls, aye?

He exhaled, closed the laptop, and stood, moving to the curtainless window to gaze out at the street and the island of hawthorn bushes and sycamore trees in its centre.

Jennifer Frazer phoned. Twice. On the second attempt, he switched off his mobile and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull clunk , bounced once, and landed face down on the floor. The screen was probably wrecked. Ah, well.

And all the while, Nell’s letter sat there. A persistent hum beneath everything, running like the ticker tape on a 24-hour news channel. It lay on the kitchen counter—lounge-stroke-kitchen, really—its edges glowing in his peripheral vision, radioactive with implications.

He should… what? Pick up the phone. Call her. Obviously. Explain.

Say, God in Govan, Nell, I wish you’d telt me years ago. I would’ve understood…

Even if he wasn’t sure that was true.

The following morning, stepping out of the flat, paranoia clung to him like a damp coat.

The guy with the buzzcut across the road whose face he recognised but name he couldn’t recall—did he hesitate before getting into his wee black Fiat, thinking, Is that Daniel Murray, the guy who took blood money from a gangster…?

The woman wrestling a twin buggy up the slope of the street—baby up top, toddler below—did she shoot him a look? A silent judgment: Men like you shouldn’t be driving top-of-the-range BMWs.

And then when he arrived at the office, a young man with a fancy camera loitered outside the St Vincent Street shop.

Daniel’s heart jolted. Paparazzi? He almost turned on his heel—until he clocked the angle of the lens.

Not aimed at him at all. The guy was just trying to get an arty shot of the Tron Church.

Martin took his time calling back.

Meanwhile, Daniel spent an unreasonable chunk of the morning reassuring Holly and Dennis that the business was fine, their jobs secure. Privately, with Holly dispatched to the Post Office with the day’s mail, he told Joe the truth. The real truth, this time.

No, he had no idea what this meant. Yes, he believed the shops, vans and outdoor catering side of the business would be safe. But the supermarket? That might be gone. Too much risk. Too many boardroom nerves.

Joe harrumphed.

Nicky was due in two weeks. Five kids (well, almost). A mortgage. A mate who might’ve just wrecked his job security.

Daniel’s chest tightened. “Joe, I’m so sorry.”

But Joe only screwed up his face and shook his head.

“Naw. I kent fine where Shane O’Malley’s money came fae too, mind? And I telt ye we should go for it. So I’m as—what’s that big word? Cul… culpable. That’s it.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, you paid it off years ago. They cannae pin anything on Stuffed! ”

Midday rolled around, and at last, Martin called back.

His message was much the same. Nothing to be done about the article—caveat, I am not a libel lawyer, and I would strongly advise you to seek clarification from someone who is .

The Scottish Post had been careful. While the piece insinuated, it didn’t explicitly state that the loan came from drug money, prostitution, or arms smuggling.

Their legal team would have dissected every sentence, scoured every comma, ensuring there was nothing Shane or Daniel could sue over.

However, Martin had seen all the paperwork. The loan. The repayments. The van. The shop. All legally his. The Civil Recovery Unit couldn’t touch it.

Retribution—or karma, if you believed in that sort of thing—came later that afternoon, when Daniel was at the Hyndland shop, reassuring Liza that she had nothing to worry about.

The old-fashioned bell tinkled as he pushed open the door, and something about the sound stopped him cold.

This place would always be tied to Nell.

For a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, the present blurring into the past. He could almost see it as it was—the grimy floor tiles, the cloying smell of Febreze failing to mask old blood and meat, the whitewashed windows filtering in only the barest sliver of light.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing , they always said.

Knowing what he did now, what would he change?

Take on the Hyndland shop, keep the sandwich vans, never bother expanding? Maybe.

Not marry Nell?

Never. Never. Never.

Liza wheeled herself out from behind the counter, dressed for battle.

False lashes—Stephanie’s signature look—framing her eyes, glossy red lipstick in place.

Nell once told him that red lipstick was a confidence booster.

Maybe Liza had chosen it today as a silent fuck you to anyone making snide remarks about the shop’s past and her stepfather.

“Gaffer. Come tae talk tae me about that article?”

The broad grin, the devil-may-care tone—it was all for show. Beneath it, fear simmered.

Daniel had never thought of himself as a particularly equalities-minded employer, but over the years, Stuffed! had adapted. The Hyndland shop. The central office. Ramps, counters, doors—all built around Liza.

“Aye, listen, I’ve spoken wi’ a lawyer. There’s nothing to worry about, honest, and—”

A loud crash stopped him mid-sentence.

He spun around. The front window was suddenly clearer than it should have been.

Ah.

A brick sat in the middle of a wheel of brie, cheese oozing from the crushed rind. Behind it, a jagged hole gaped in the glass, shards scattered across the floor like broken teeth.

Daniel bolted for the door. “Oi!”

On the pavement, a figure—male, probably—dressed head to toe in black, hood pulled low, whirled around just long enough to flick him a two-fingered salute.

“That’s for Conor Kelly, arsehole!”

Then he was off.

Daniel charged after him, knowing full well that if he didn’t catch the guy, the police wouldn’t do a damn thing.

But then a scream. Sharp. High-pitched.

He skidded to a stop.

Whirled back toward the shop.

And felt his stomach plummet.

Flames and thick, black smoke poured from the shattered window, curling around the frame, licking hungrily at the sign. The brick had been the bait. Hoodie-boy’s accomplice had waited for him to chase after him and then firebombed the shop.

And Liza, in her wheelchair, was still inside.

Daniel tore back down the street, shoving past bystanders, his pulse thundering in his ears.

A small crowd had gathered across the road, some filming, others gawping.

Two people had mobiles pressed to their ears—calling 999, hopefully—but just to be sure, he bellowed, “Someone call the fire brigade!”

A man nodded, thumb in the air.

The acrid stench hit him before he reached the door—petrol, melted plastic, scorched cheese and meat. A barbecue turned nightmare. The flames were still contained to the front, for now, but that wouldn’t last.

Bottles of olive oil were stacked near the door. If the heat shattered them—if the flames reached the pooling liquid—the whole place would go up in seconds.

No sign of Liza.

He couldn’t risk opening the front door, not with the fire clawing for oxygen.

“Liza!” He roared. “Liza!”

“I seen her! She wheeled hersel’ through the back!”

A young mother called out, her child clutched tight to her hip, her palm pressed to his head, shielding him from the sight.

Still no sirens.

Fear slammed into him, hard and paralysing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, just stood there, useless, as the flames roared higher.

The rest of the glass blew out in an explosion of heat and shrapnel.

“Oh, fucking hell!” the young woman cried as Daniel threw his arms around her and the boy, shielding them from the blast.

Glass rained down, shards bouncing off the pavement. One clipped his cheek, sharp and stinging.

“Go!” he urged. She bolted, the child’s wails trailing after them.

Still no sirens.

Where the fuck were the fire engines? The ambulances? The police?

Another thought twisted his gut.

The heating. Or rather, the lack of it. It had been on the to-do list for months, but Liza had been making do with the old Calor gas fire—the same kind that had been there years ago when he first showed Nell the shop.

If that went up—

He gulped back the nausea and the shakes. Do it. Move.

The pub next door was closed, but its beer garden shared a footpath with the back of his shop. He rattled the door, hoping someone might be inside. No answer.

No time.

He kicked it in.

The alarm shrieked as he clambered through, the splintered wood scraping his back.

The heat and smoke clawed at his throat, the stench of burning meat and melted plastic thick in the air. But if the fire reached here—a pub packed with flammable liquids—the whole block would be at risk.

The back door was locked. He slammed a shoulder into it, then spotted the keys hanging on a nearby hook. Careless. Lucky.

The lock was stiff. He swore, throwing his weight against it.

“C’mon, you fucker. Open! ”

It gave suddenly, sending him stumbling outside.

Ignoring the path, he scaled the brick wall that separated the beer garden from the shop’s back lot, hands scraping against rough stone as he heaved himself over.

He hit the ground hard, landing awkwardly on the other side of the wall. Pain jolted through his left knee and ankle, sharp and immediate.

No time to dwell on it.

Limping as fast as his body allowed, he lunged for the shop’s back door, yanking the handle up and down. Useless.

Locked.

For the second time that day, he threw himself at a door, hammering it down with brute force. This one took longer as his weakened leg meant he couldn’t kick with full power.

One attempt.

Agony shot through his foot, ankle, calf, knee, hamstring.

Another.

Then another.

At last, the door gave way with a groan, crashing inward. He shoved his hand through the gap and twisted the handle from the inside.

“Liza! Liza! ”

A muffled response— in here —from the small bathroom.

But the fire had spread.

Flames crawled across the doorway into the shop, licking at the old wooden ceiling beams. Smoke thickened, curling into his lungs, suffocating.

One minute. Two, tops. That was all he had to get her out before the fire swallowed them both.

He turned, spotted an old planter in the car park brimming with rainwater, and yanked off his jumper. Dunked it, wrung it out, threw it over his head to keep the worst of the fumes at bay.

Then, holding it up just enough to see, he stumbled back inside.

“Liza! Soak a towel in water and squeeze it out before you open the door—stick it over your head,” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “It’s awfy smoky out here.”

Fiery too, but smoky sounded less terrifying. And it was the truth. Most fire victims didn’t burn. They suffocated.

A beat. Then—

“Okay!”

The bathroom lock clicked. Liza wheeled herself out, her face ghost-white, her auburn hair and red lipstick stark against the pallor.

“Ready?”

“Aye.”

Normally, she hated anyone but Josh pushing her but today wasn’t normal.

Daniel grabbed the handles and bolted.

Heat roared behind them, a living, breathing thing, clawing at his back. Smoke thickened, acrid and suffocating. His lungs burned, his eyes watered, every breath raw and ragged.

His body started to give out.

Pain screamed through his legs, his chest, his skull. His lungs refused to take in air. The adrenaline that had carried him drained away, leaving only the damage.

One last push.

With everything he had left, he shoved Liza’s wheelchair toward safety—

—before his legs crumpled beneath him, and he collapsed, face-first, onto the burning-hot floor.