‘We are about to close, sir.’

Elvis swiveled back to see the docent of Kelvingrove Art and Gallery Museum standing over his shoulder with a broad smile.

‘Thank you,’ he nodded, and she walked away.

Since Molly got pregnant, he dreaded returning home at night. The setting sun was a reminder of the potential horror he would have to endure, and every night was a different kind of drama she often blamed on hormonal imbalance. ‘Like you’re the first person to ever be pregnant!’ he usually grumbled beneath his breath.

Elvis waited until the last person left the building before standing to leave. He flashed a smile to the docent as he walked past her while holding on to the tip of his cap.

‘Aye, he’s a gentleman now,’ said the security man to the docent. ‘Why d’ye think he stays here so late?’

‘Scared tae go hame,’ she replied, and shifted her gaze to Elvis as he walked down the stairs. ‘Probably got a naggin’ missus waitin’ fer him wi a fryin’ pan.’

‘Aye! I feel for him but I think mine’s shittier. I’ll be goin’ hame to some charcoal tea.’ They both burst into laughter.
Elvis turned back, casting a long, sad gaze at the museum and saw the pair laughing.

They stopped at once, waved at Elvis and feigned a smile. Elvis managed to wave back, wondering what about him had made them laugh.

He looked at his wristwatch; it was a little after 5pm. He shook his head and thought to go and sit at the Kelvingrove’s café but remembered coming across Molly’s best friend, Emily, the last time he was there. When Molly questioned what he was doing there when his shift had ended and he was supposed to be home, he’d lied and said he was with his boss.

He got into his car and drove down Paisley West Road to Cardonald, stopping to park in front of Castles, a small independent restaurant that served both classic and contemporary

dishes. The place was small and cosy, simple and welcoming just as its owner and chef, David. Elvis had worked there as a kitchen porter when he first moved to Glasgow after absconding from Birmingham. When he had arrived in the United Kingdom, the restaurant was the first place he was treated like a human being and not seen as Black.

‘Elvis!’ David exclaimed as Elvis walked in, ‘All right!’ He bumped his fist in a spirited fashion.

‘It’s me in the flesh,’ said Elvis, feigning enthusiasm.

‘I can see that! Just give me a few minutes. Let me do something in the kitchen.’ He turned to a waiter and said, ‘Serve him anything he wants. It’s on the house.’

The waiter approached Elvis, who sat now at the far end of the restaurant away from prying eyes. Three months of working in the kitchen and he still couldn’t name any of their dishes, except for Collin’s Italian Spaghetti. His mind was, however, too preoccupied for him to eat.

‘A martini would do,’ said Elvis to the waiter. ‘Thank you.’

He shifted his gaze to the sign carved against the wall, grey and lit, its elegance adding beauty to the feel of the restaurant. His drink arrived just as David returned to sit with him.

‘Yo my man, what’s up?’ David asked.

Elvis stared at David contemplating whether to tell the truth or reply with a lie which had become a common response: ‘Fine’. He feared if he spoke the truth, the wind would blow his whispers to Molly’s ears and everything for him would be over. Molly was his last hope at cementing a better life or at least what would appear to be a better life compared to where he came from.

‘I’m fine.’ He feigned a grin.
‘All right!’ David nodded. ‘And Molly? How’re she and the baby coming?’

‘Fine,’ Elvis responded in a low tone, then without warning, he burst into silent tears. ‘I am not fine, David. I am in deep shit.’

‘Fuck! What’s wrong? Talk to me.’
‘I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘Anywhere, mate, anywhere.’ David leaned forward.
Elvis sniffed, mulling over the words to use to tell the man sitting opposite him that he

was an illegal immigrant and his love for Molly was conditional. He heaved a deep sigh and gulped down his martini for some form of courage but found none at the end of the glass.

‘Talk to me my friend.’
Elvis looked into the glass it was empty. He needed more than courage to tell David he

was in this situation as a result of his own stupidity, an eagerness to make quick money. ‘This thing, whatever it is, does Molly know?’ asked David, killing the silence.
Elvis’s phone rang. It was Molly. He silenced the phone with urgency and cursed under

his breath. ‘Shit!’ He looked around for any familiar faces then back to David, who was staring at him in bewilderment.

‘Are you okay?’
‘No. Yes. I got to go.’
Elvis rose and started away, leaving David agape.

In less than fifteen minutes Elvis was at Hillhead unlocking the door to his house. He walked in to find Molly sitting on the couch in silence, which he thought was odd considering her routinely welcoming him with screams and questions about his lateness and whereabouts.

‘Hey babe.’ He made to kiss her protruding stomach but she shoved his face away. ‘Are you okay?’

Molly folded her arm and looked away. Her countenance since Elvis arrived had been unpleasant. He followed her eyes and noticed his travel bag was laid on the couch and his belongings scattered all over the sitting room.

‘What is going on?’ Elvis asked.
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ Molly asked.
Elvis winced. ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed beneath his breath as he ran for the bag. ‘The letter!’

He dived into the bag hurling the remains of his belongings out until he reached the bottom, shaking the bag for something to fall out. He set it down looking terrified.

‘Looking for this?’ said Molly behind him.
He turned around and saw a familiar envelope on the centre table. ‘Fuck!’ he mouthed. ‘Yes. You’re fucked.’
‘Babe – I know you’re mad, but let me explain.’
‘Explain what?’ she scoffed. ‘You don’t even know what’s in the letter.’
Elvis opened his mouth to talk but found the words wouldn’t come out.
‘Go ahead,’ Molly said, ‘read it. I would love to know what the letter says.’
‘Babe, I don’t need to…’
‘I said read the damn fucking letter,’ she shouted, making a fist. Elvis nodded. ‘I’m

trying hard not to disturb the baby,’ she said rubbing her stomach. ‘So please just read the damn fucking letter.’

Elvis picked up the letter and cleared his throat. He looked at Molly hoping she’d have a change of mind but the anger on her face suggested otherwise.

‘Dear Elvis Osahon,’ he began. ‘This is to inform you that…’ ‘Won’t you at least let me know who it is from?’
Elvis scowled, concealing his distress.

‘UKVI.’ The tone of his voice was losing strength. Molly nodded and urged him on. ‘This is to inform you that we have withdrawn your right to live and work in the United Kingdom…’

Elvis paused as those words flushed his memory with recollected thoughts of how he could have avoided this letter, avoided Molly. He continued the letter. ‘This is as a result of the University of Birmingham informing us of withdrawing your admission offer due to lack of attendance and tuition payment. You are hereby advised to…’ Elvis stopped reading and slid the letter into his pocket. ‘Babe, let me explain.’

Molly’s face was livid. ‘You know I crosschecked the date the letter was sent. Isn’t it funny that we moved to Glasgow just weeks after that, and all of a sudden you declared you wanted to have a baby with me?’

‘Molly, you also said you wanted a baby.’
‘No!’ Molly shouted getting to her feet. ‘Don’t even go there, Elvis. Don’t!’
‘The same want, just different reasons,’ said Elvis beneath his breath.
‘But you want a child with me to secure your stay in this country.’
‘No,’ Elvis said, shaking his head with impatience. ‘You’re an erratic junkie no white

man wants anything to do with. You chose me because I am Black and can be used,’ he retorted, ‘and if we’re being fair, you started using me before this letter ever arrived.’

She struck his face so hard that it sent a wave of shock down Elvis’s spine. He paused a few seconds, holding his face, and when he lifted it, his right eye was red.

‘I know you’re mad, but please can we just talk this out without cursing and fighting?’

‘You lying bastard,’ Molly hit him over and over again. As he stood allowing her to vent without impeding her punches, he closed his eyes, disappointed that his secret was finally out and unsure what would happen next. With Molly, he wasn’t sure of anything.

—

Excerpt from FROM GLASGOW WITHOUT LOVE. Copyright © 2025 by Albrin Junior.

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