by Alan Parks
He closed the file. Felt something like relief. He could get rid of that. Wasn’t much to get rid of. Wondered if this was what it was like to commit a major crime, worrying about getting found out all the time. To always be looking over your shoulder, holding your breath. Knew one thing, he was never doing anything like Burgess again. Never.
Realised the report was sitting on the desk next to Abrahams’ pamphlet. Last thing people like Charlie the Pram needed was reading shite like this, promising a cure to all their ills. Picked it up to put it in the bin. Stopped dead. Just kept looking at the pamphlet.
‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said to himself. ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’
THIRTY-FIVE
He couldn’t find Wattie anywhere, decided not to wait. For all he knew Elaine’s life could depend on it. Wasn’t keen on driving, especially not in this weather, but he got a car from the pool, set off through the city and headed for the Southside.
Pinetrees, Beverley Road, Newlands, Glasgow, was set back from the road. Like most of the houses in Newlands, it was massive, built so servants could live on the top floors and never be seen. The house was surrounded by large gardens with mature pine trees at the back, big double garage off at the side. Front was a huge lawn, flower beds, monkey puzzle tree in the middle. Despite its grandeur, it looked like it had seen better days. Weeds growing up through the paving stones leading to the door, peeling paint on the iron railings, general air of neglect.
McCoy sat in the car looking at the house, pamphlet in his hand. ‘To order more pamphlets, contact Pinetrees, Beverley Road, Newlands, Glasgow’ written on the back. He felt a bit daft now, rushing out the shop at full tilt, and for what? To look at an empty house. He knew Abrahams was hiding something, just didn’t know what. Seemed like another address might be it. Wasn’t so sure now.
He called in from the car. House was registered to a Mr Cuthbert Abrahams, according to Diane from Greenock, and according to the electoral register he was eighty-three. What if that was all it was? His dad’s house where he stored his extra pamphlets?
Fuck it, was worth a look.
The snow on the path up to the house was pristine. He trudged up, feet sinking into the wetness. Closer he got, the more neglected the house looked. One of the panes in the upstairs window was cracked, moss growing up the wall by the front door. Maybe his dad didn’t even live here any more, probably off in an old folk’s home.
He rang the bell. Didn’t hear anything. Hit the door with his fist a good few times. Nothing. He put his hands up to the windowpane to hide the glare from the snow and peered in.
‘Shite,’ he said under his breath.
Took three good goes for him to kick the door open. Wood was starting to rot which helped but it was still a big bastard of a door, didn’t give way easily. Wood cracked and then the Yale lock gave way and the door swung open. He went in, walked through the dusty hallway shouting hello, trying not to breathe in the smell of cat piss, and into the big front room.
Mr Abrahams was a thin man dressed in a variety of stained blankets wrapped around himself, shoes that looked too big for him and a knitted balaclava. A kitten popped its head out from his blankets, sniffed, retreated again. A shackle round his bleeding and scarred ankle was attached to a chain secured to an old-fashioned iron radiator.
‘Mr Abrahams?’ asked McCoy.
He nodded. ‘Are you the Home Guard? I told that bloody girl the blackout blinds in the drawing room were too small.’
McCoy sighed. Not only was this trip a waste of time, now he was going to have to deal with this. There was a covered bucket by the couch, packet of biscuits, a torch.
McCoy smiled endearingly, or at least he hoped he did. ‘Mind if I sit down for a bit?’
The old man looked at him. Kitten appeared again. ‘You’ll have to be quick. I have to get dressed for dinner, car’s coming in half an hour.’
‘Quick it is then,’ he said, sitting down on a dining chair by the window.
The old man seemed to be living in the front room. Bed was in there, old black-and-white TV, wee three-bar electric heater, empty tins of cat food everywhere. He hoped to God they were for the cats and not him.
Mr Abrahams arranged his blankets around himself, looked exhausted. ‘I’m cold,’ he said. ‘Very cold.’
‘It’s okay, we’re going to get someone here to help you.’
He nodded, seemed to understand. ‘I don’t even know what day it is,’ he said, eyes welling up. ‘I don’t know where everyone’s gone.’
‘Your son comes to visit?’
He nodded again. ‘He brings bread and milk and the food for the cats. I keep asking him where everyone is but he doesn’t answer.’
McCoy wondered if he could get Abrahams done for parental neglect, wondered if there even was such a thing. Was going to get him done for something, that was for sure. Decided he may as well double-check things while he was here.
‘Do you have a phone, Mr Abrahams?’ he asked.
Mr Abrahams looked at him, lost. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘I can’t remember where it is.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said McCoy. ‘I’ll find it.’
House was pretty much as he expected. Most of the rooms seemed to be abandoned and unused. Colder in the draughty rooms than it was outside. He pushed the door open to the front bedroom and something scurried under the skirting board, disappeared. Cardboard boxes full of Abrahams’ pamphlets were everywhere – on the bed, piled up on the floor.
He wiped some of the condensation off the window and looked out. House faced a wee park covered in snow, didn’t look like it was used much. Snow was unmarked. No snowmen or kids playing, not in Newlands.
He pushed a box over, sat down on the bed and lit up. Bit of a wild goose chase all in all, no Abrahams and certainly no Connolly. There was a picture in a silver frame on the bedside table. Mr Abrahams looking neat and smart in his suit, standing in front of a boat. Funny how things turn out. Drive past this place and you would think the people inside were rich, happy, living in one of the biggest houses in Glasgow. Little would you know. A cat put its head round the door, jumped up onto the bed and settled down beside him, purring. He put his hand out to stroke it, realised it was crawling with fleas just in time.
The back bedrooms were the same: empty, damp and freezing, no sign of a phone anywhere. He stood at the window looking out over the back garden. Had to be the size of a couple of tennis courts. He rubbed at the grime on the window and tried to see where it ended. Wherever it was, was lost in a tangle of bushes and overgrown pines.
Finally found a phone under a wee table in the hall. Got it out, blew the dust off it and called into the shop. Told them to send an ambulance and somebody from the Cruelty. He was just about to head downstairs when he noticed something.
The black felt roof of the garage was wet, glistening in the sunshine. No snow. The garages of the other houses were all covered in a thick layer of it. Snow on Abrahams’ garage must have melted, which meant the garage was heated. Why would anyone heat their garage and not the house?
He stepped out the back door and walked down to the garage. The two double doors at the front were locked. Padlocks on them thick with rust, looked like they’d been there for years. He tramped round the back, feet crunching in the snowy gravel. There was a back door, a normal-sized one, and it was lying half open.
‘Abrahams!’ shouted McCoy. ‘You in there?’
A figure stepped into the doorway. Bald head. Long metal bar in hand. ‘No, but I am,’ he said and swung the bar.
McCoy tried to step back but he was a fraction too slow. The bar hit him hard on the temple. There was a burst of pain. As he fell he saw Connolly raising it to swing it again and then everything went black.
*
He could hear voices – not what they were saying, just the noise of them fading in and out.
He opened his eyes. White light. Bright white light. That’s all he could see.
&n
bsp; McCoy closed his eyes, opened them again. Realised he was looking at striplights in the ceiling. Realised if he could see the ceiling he was lying down. Realised he couldn’t move.
He tried to look down his body. There was a broad leather strap across his chest, another one across his ankles, wrist straps. Felt like there was one over his forehead; could hardly move his head, couldn’t move his body at all.
He strained his neck, tried to move his head sideways. Straps tight, could only shift an inch or two, but it was enough. The inside of the garage was bright. Lamps as well as the striplights in the ceiling. Walls painted white, half tiled. White metal cabinets with glass doors full of bottles and boxes of medicines.
Next to him was something like a metal autopsy table. Thing is, autopsy tables didn’t have leather wrist and ankle restraints unbuckled and hanging over the side. Big leather strap that looked like it would hold someone’s head in place at the top. Realised that’s where he was. Strapped to a table in Abrahams’ garage and he remembered who hit him. Connolly. And suddenly he was scared, very scared.
Turned the other way and there was a machine in the corner, a kind of box on wheels with a meter on the front, two wires coming from it ending in two black-handled things with suckers on the end. He knew what it was. An ECT machine. His stomach rolled. He knew what they were for too. They zapped your brain, gave you an electric shock; you have a fit. His stomach rolled again. And then they lobotomised you.
‘Well, well.’
He turned. Abrahams was looking down at him. Smiling. ‘I thought Mr Connolly had killed you. That blow to the head looked very nasty. Seems not.’
McCoy tried to speak but his tongue was thick in his mouth, couldn’t really get any words out. He turned his head. There were two chairs by the wall. Connolly was sitting in one, Elaine in the other; her head bowed, body slack. He tried to scream but his throat was too dry, too sore. A kind of strangled moan came out and Connolly looked over at him. Smiled.
Connolly stood up, stretched. ‘About fucking time,’ he said.
He walked over to the table. Leant down, face right into McCoy’s. His breath stank of cigarettes and a weird sweet smell, chemical. ‘You almost ruined it, you fucking cunt.’
McCoy felt his heart running too fast, like it was exploding in his chest. He’d been scared before but now he knew what real fear was. What terror was. He wanted away, wanted to be anywhere but there. He tried to speak, to plead, but Connolly clamped a hand over his mouth.
‘You listen to me. I’m going to finish what I started in that pub. And this time there’ll be no old cunt to save you. You understand, McCoy? Going to be just you and me and all the time in the world.’
McCoy started to writhe, tried to pull at the straps. Tried to stop thinking about Charlie Jackson on the roof – the blood, the cutting.
‘And you know something?’ Connolly said. ‘I can’t fucking wait.’
He turned to pull a small wheeled metal table towards him. McCoy twisted his head, saw what was on the table. The fear was everywhere now, whole body singing with it.
‘Help me,’ he managed to get out. ‘Don’t, please.’
Connolly picked up a scalpel, held it up to the light. He could see Elaine behind him, still sitting in the chair, head down. Tried to call to her.
‘Please . . .’
‘She can’t hear you, McCoy,’ said Connolly. ‘Nobody can.’
He leant over him with the scalpel and McCoy screamed, twisted his head back and forwards.
‘Stay still or it’ll be worse,’ said Connolly and then he cut the first button off his shirt.
THIRTY-SIX
He couldn’t remember if it was the third or fourth time he’d come back round. He didn’t even care what happened to him any more. He just wanted to black out again and for the pain to go. But it didn’t. It was coming over him in waves, the worst pain he’d ever felt.
He could see Connolly bent over him, concentrating as he carved another letter into his chest. He had told him what he was going to write but he’d forgotten. Pain just overcame everything. Couldn’t think of anything but wanting it to stop, couldn’t remember anything but the pain.
‘There,’ said Connolly. He looked up, grinned. Sprays of drying blood on his face.
McCoy heard Abrahams behind his head.
‘That’s enough for now,’ he said.
‘Fuck off,’ said Connolly. ‘I haven’t even started.’
Abrahams sighed. ‘Okay. If you must.’
Connolly put the bloody scalpel back on the metal table. Looked through the other instruments like a kid picking his favourite toy.
All McCoy wanted was for him to hurry up. To hurt him so bad he passed out. To escape back into the darkness. Hide there where Connolly couldn’t get to him.
Connolly held up a small bone saw, showed it to McCoy. ‘This one, I think,’ he said.
He pulled it along McCoy’s arm experimentally, teeth pulling and cutting through his flesh. McCoy screamed as the pain hit. Connolly grinned happily, went to draw it through McCoy’s arm again and stopped. Looked confused. He swayed a bit, then fell, slumped over McCoy’s chest.
Abrahams appeared behind him, syringe in hand. ‘He’s had his fun,’ he said. ‘Now it’s time for mine.’
McCoy felt the black calling him back, felt the weight of Connolly being lifted off his chest, and drifted away.
*
He thought he could smell burning, like an electricity transformer overheating or a plug before it blew. He opened his eyes, wave of agony from his body. Turned his head, thought he saw Abrahams undoing the straps holding Connolly’s body down on the other table. Blinked, tried to focus. Thought he was going to black out again. Did.
The smell again. The burning. He turned his head. Elaine was strapped to the other table, Abrahams holding the paddles of the ECT machine to the sides of her head. A warning tone and then she shuddered and jerked; the smell of burning got stronger. Her legs were kicking under the straps, body writhing. Abrahams took the paddles away and her body suddenly became still.
Abrahams bent over her, took the leather block out from between her teeth. Caressed her cheek, kissed her.
McCoy turned away.
He told himself he wouldn’t turn back, that he’d keep his eyes on the far wall. Waited, could hear Abrahams wandering around, whistling as he picked up things from metal trays. McCoy knew exactly what it was he was picking up. A hammer and a long pointed probe.
He told himself he wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t look. He didn’t. Not even when he heard the hammer hit the probe. Not even when he heard the faint crack of her skull giving way and he started crying. He felt sick when he heard the scraping. Kept his eyes on the wall, tried not to believe he was next. The scraping went on. He willed himself back into the darkness.
*
‘McCoy!’
He came to suddenly. Abrahams was undoing the strap across his chest. Helping him sit up. As he did, the pain across his chest hit him. He tried to breathe, to ride it out, tried not to pass out.
‘Breathe,’ said Abrahams. ‘Try to breathe.’ He held a cup of water up to his mouth and McCoy tried to drink it, most of it spilling onto the cuts on his chest.
‘Better?’ Abrahams asked.
McCoy nodded.
‘Good.’
Abrahams cocked his head. Distant sound of a siren. Smiled. ‘Perfect timing.’
McCoy raised his head, blinked. He felt woozy, tried to focus.
Kevin Connolly and Elaine Scobie were sitting in the two chairs dressed in hospital gowns. They both had black eyes, bruises on their foreheads, dried blood around their nostrils.
McCoy’s head spun, thought he was going to pass out again. Tried to hold on. Blinked a few times, tried to believe what he was seeing. The sirens got louder. The two of them were holding hands.
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘Could have been worse, I suppose,’ said Wattie. ‘Could have said cunt.’
‘Watson! For fuck
sake!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Wattie.
McCoy was lying on Abrahams’ kitchen table getting stitched up by one of the ambulance men who had come to take the old man away. He was a huge guy, fingers like bunches of bananas, but he seemed to be doing a good enough job.
‘Should really be getting this done at the hospital,’ he said, sticking his needle in.
‘I’m not going to the hospital,’ said McCoy through gritted teeth.
‘Are you sure that’s—’
‘I said I’m not going, Murray! That’s that.’
Murray sat down on the kitchen chair, held his hands up in surrender.
McCoy looked away as the needle went in again. Wasn’t quite sure why but he wanted to be here with Murray and Wattie. Wanted normality. Them bickering at each other, the stink of Murray’s pipe. He’d thought he was going to die, really believed it. Now all he wanted was to be here with people he knew, not alone in a hospital.
The ambulance man finished. ‘There’ll be scars but they should fade. A scalpel, was it?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Goes in deep but it’s a thin cut, shouldn’t be too bad. I’m going to say this once more, even though you’re no listening to me. If you start getting a headache or light causing you pain go straight to A&E. That’s a nasty hit to your head. Need to be careful.’
McCoy nodded again. Watched as he packed up his stuff. He stopped by Murray on the way out, bent down, talked in his ear, but McCoy could still hear him.
‘Keep an eye on him, good chance he could go into shock. If he feels dizzy, starts to sweat, throws up, get him into the hospital no matter what he says.’
‘Here.’ Wattie put a cup of tea down in front of him. ‘Found the tea in the back of the cupboard. Probably been there since the First World War but give it a go.’
McCoy sat up, pulled the jumper Wattie had taken off and given him over his head, and tasted the tea. Wasn’t bad.
Murray rubbed his stubble. Looked pained. ‘So what the fuck do we do with the two of them in there? Never seen anything like it.’
