by Caro Ramsay
‘Fine!’ he said, heading out the door. He slammed it so hard a miniature jumped from its hanging and crashed to the floor.
Helena swore loudly as her husband went on to slam the outer door behind him, killing the sudden noise of traffic on Bath Street.
Silence.
‘Bastard!’ she whispered. No point in talking aloud: there was nobody there to hear. She sat down. She should have sat down right at the start and told him calmly, drip-feeding it a bit at a time, but hindsight was a marvellous thing. Back then she’d thought it was all about nothing. Now it looked as though it was about a wee bit more than nothing. My Brother in Palestine was lying against the wall, looking at her; she decided to go to the shop for a sandwich and to get some fresh air.
Monday, 2 October
Shortly after midnight, the disco was heaving like a huge animal that pulsed and grooved to the insistent rhythm. The noise was deafening. Dark, dirty walls glistened with dripping sweat, the air heavy and thick with dry-ice smoke, cloying at his lungs. The constant rhythmic thumping of the bass pounded his stomach. Sean McTiernan had often felt caged in prison, but this was worse.
He started to shake. Nerves, he muttered to himself to keep calm. This was it.
After three years, six months, two days.
He seemed just another punter in a nightclub, looking for a woman, any woman. But Sean was looking for one woman in particular. A redhead leered at him as she went past, paused and came back for another look. He squinted into the middle distance, looking past her, avoiding her eyes, losing her in the smoke. The music assaulted his ears and the redhead joined in the attack, squawking something at him and laughing. Her hair moved like a brick, he noticed. Anybody running their hands through that risked losing a finger. He smiled back at her and again fixed his eyes on the point over her shoulder: an old Chevy bumper was stuck on the wall, decorated by two pairs of knickers. He wanted a woman, but not this travesty.
The redhead’s friend bumped into her and the redhead dominoed into him, spilling her Bloody Mary down his shirt. Sean pulled away from them, steadying the redhead as she stumbled before releasing her and letting her fall to the floor. And then he knew. He knew she was close. If he closed his eyes, he could see her, coming through the haze, smiling at him …
She might not be safe, but she was here.
His throat began to hurt. He needed a drink. He stepped over the redhead, making his way doggedly towards the bar, ploughing a course where there were only men. It was more difficult to elbow women aside; their flesh was softer, barer. He didn’t like to touch. They weren’t wearing much: skirts up to their arse and see-through tops with no bras. At the bar, trying to understand what you had to do to get a drink, the queue still bopping up and down to the music, he found it easier to move than to stand still. In the end, the transaction was done by sign language, the can being pointed at and paid for with Sean having no idea what he had bought or how much he had paid. It was Miller, and the lager was warm to his tongue. He felt himself being sucked back towards the crowd on the dance floor.
A skinhead in a Saltire T-shirt elbowed him and spilled the Miller down his shirt, spreading further the stain of the Bloody Mary. ‘Sorry, mate.’ Then he added, ‘Some result, big man, eh?’
Sean nodded. In Glasgow it was always some result. And always better to agree. The smell of skinhead aftershave could have disinfected a dog kennel, but somewhere in his senses Sean caught the smell of the sea and salt and the scent of a woman. Blonde.
His eyes scanned the dance floor, the crowd at the periphery, the dancers on the stairs, the people at the bar. He knew he was being watched.
Three years and six months and two days.
He made his way towards the dancing. The wooden floor was separated from the rest of the nightclub by a single brass rail. He leaned against it, trying to appear nonchalant, his eyes scanning the dance floor, from left to right and then back again, through the mist of dry ice to the ghostlike figures gyrating and thrusting like demented marionettes.
A girl noticed him and started dancing, sideways on, her chin on her shoulder, moving her body with comic mistiming. She was a piece of Glaswegian glamour, red leather miniskirt and a black bra nearly covered by a black plastic waistcoat, peroxide blonde hair the colour of straw piled on top of her head. A wide mouth was painted scarlet to match the talon nails.
And green ankle boots.
Those ankle boots. It was only when she moved closer, smiling at him, stubby fingers opening and closing in greeting, that he realized it was bloody Arlene from the café.
Sean looked away, but the eye contact had lasted a little too long, and she misread the sign.
‘You said you’d be here.’
‘Did I?’
‘Nae, I wiz earwigging.’ She leaned over the rail and started to grind her legs against his, jutting her pelvis backwards and forwards like a cheap lap dancer revving up. Sean’s eyes shot past her to the dance floor, catching a glimpse of something that was gone. His heart stopped for a moment.
He stayed still, looking. Arlene caught the line of his vision.
‘Yer up for it? Again?’ Her tongue ran across her upper teeth, then she raised her glass to her lips and swayed drunkenly, spilling most of it down the Grand Canyon of her cleavage. ‘Again,’ she repeated, pulling his ear close to her mouth, her grasp firm on his shirt. She blew a bubble with her gum, the sickly sweet smell of it exploding in his face.
‘Fuck off, and fuck off now.’ He ducked under the rail.
He stood still for a moment, raising his eyes through the mist of dry ice, and she was there, slowly revealed to him. Short black hair, a dark dress that skimmed the top of slender bare white thighs. Dark mirrored glasses covered her eyes, her pouting lips curved to smile. Seductively she raised a forefinger to touch the bridge of the glasses and pulled them down the length of her nose, revealing large grey eyes. She winked and pushed the glasses back up, her eyes hidden, her face lost in the smoke.
When it passed, she had gone.
This one was his.
Outside in the street, the wind caught the breath from Sean’s lungs and the rain stung his eyes, but Glasgow had never smelled or looked so good. She stopped at the corner of Torness Street, looking back to make sure he was following, pulling her cloak up over her head before slipping, ethereal and ghostly, into the stormy night.
Byres Road was busy, singletons hurrying past to get out of the weather, smokers sheltering under the canopies, couples hand in hand, absorbed in each other, on their way home from the Chip and the Cul de Sac. Most of the pubs had closed their doors, though a few people were still hanging around the alleyways, too drunk to notice how wet they were getting. A football supporter in Celtic hoops was standing in the middle of the pavement, arms out, the wind filling his jacket, laughing, letting the gusts spin him among the traffic. Sean McTiernan walked past slowly, watching the small figure swathed in black standing at the corner, one foot in the road, one foot on the pavement. She swayed slightly in the wind, moving to one side as a taxi passed, then out into the road again, so she could be seen. Then she was gone.
Sean went after her, resisting the urge to break into a run, keeping his head down, protecting his eyes from the rain. He careered into somebody, saying sorry and continuing on, his stride never breaking. He sidestepped round a couple, too busy sheltering their faces from the rain to watch where they were going. He jogged a few yards to make up the lost distance, his eyes on her all the time. He was high on emotion. Three years, six months and two days. Now that she was there for the taking, he could hardly stand it. There was only one constant thing in his life. Her love.
He lost her for a moment, then caught sight of her again. Hide and seek. In sight, then gone.
He stopped at the supermarket window, looked up and down the street. A blonde came by, staggering slightly, and as she walked past an illuminated window he recognized the green ankle boots.
Oh, no, not now. She was trash. How could she eve
n walk on the same pavement, stand under the same rain, as perfection? He turned to face the glass, letting her pass behind him. But she didn’t notice him; she just kept going, raising her hand in greeting to some other poor sucker she had lined up. He kept his head down, not seeing her, not seeing anything but the little figure costumed in black that danced ahead of him. Where was she going?
His bedsit was near here, but she was too clever for that; she wouldn’t go there. He walked to the edge of the pavement, looking: nothing to the left, nothing to the right. She hadn’t crossed the road. His eyes darted up the side road opposite. Nothing. He felt a familiar tickle in the hairs on the back of his neck, that familiar sense of her. He turned slowly round.
Three years, six months, two days.
Behind him was an alley, a dead end, the goods entrance to the supermarket, finishing in a yard with a high mesh fence, a skip abandoned at the far end. He squinted his eyes against the rain.
Whistler’s Lane. He had killed Malkie Steele there.
Of all the places, why this one?
To say thank you.
Whistler’s Lane was empty. Then a glimpse of flesh in the darkness, here, then gone, seen, then unseen. She had dipped into a door recess. Sean could not help but feel like John Wayne as he walked down the lane. He had the measure of her game now; she wanted him, and she was not going to wait until it was safe.
She had come to get him.
Just as she said she would.
The lane was cobbled at the end, the walls covered with graffiti. King Billy and the Pope were due for a rematch. Good for them, thought Sean, so are Sean and Truli.
She was leaning dramatically against the door at the back of the recess, not smiling but looking at him almost warily, her black cloak furled round her slender arms, one leg up, bare foot against the wall, silk slippers kicked on to the concrete. Her face was turned into the wind, her skin wet, the light glistening off perfect cheekbones.
She could have been twelve years old, waiting for him outside school again.
He reached out with both hands, cupping her face, holding it up to the light and the rain so that he could see her clearly. Nothing had changed. He frowned slightly and pulled the wig from her head.
Blonde hair tumbled to her shoulders.
His angel was back. She smiled as he pulled her face to his, kissing her deeply and passionately, biting into her face. Her thin arms moved round his waist, the cloak falling from her shoulders to the ground. He could feel the erotic slenderness of her pelvis, her ribs through her dress, the tenderness of bone moving beneath his fingers. She smelled of the sea and of salt and of home. He needed that more than he needed oxygen, more than life itself. His cheek felt wet, her tears mixing with the rain as the light grey eyes filled and overflowed. She looked frightened. Only then did he understand that maybe the last four years had been hard for her too. He kissed the tears from her cheek, tasting salt on his tongue.
Then, pulling at her lips with his, his hands moved down, feeling the thinness of her spine, the curve of her hips, fingers walking their way down, then up …
She did not stop him.
He realized that she was wearing no underwear; in fact, she was wearing hardly any clothes at all. His breathing quickened. She paused, pulling away from him, and then tugged at the belt round his waist, trying to undo the buckle with fingers made clumsy by passion. His heart was light; she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He leaned against her, hard, pinning her to the wall as he undid the belt himself, his hands moving hurriedly, not wanting to lose any contact with her body. Then he took her hands in his, opening them out to her sides. He stood, looking at her spread against the wall as if crucified, strands of blonde hair falling over her face, grey eyes staring directly back at his, wide and vulnerable. An erotic Madonna. She pulled him back into her, and he slipped his hands under her bottom, lifting her from the ground. She gasped, whether with pain or pleasure he couldn’t tell and didn’t care. He felt her small teeth bite into his neck, her nails grip on to his arm. Four years, a long time to be away from this. He breathed her in, the smell of her, gasping, tasting her, biting her. Then it was over, too quickly. Gently he lowered her back to the ground, catching his breath, and simply held her as though he would never be able to let her go. He felt her body stiffen against his. Her hand tapped on his shoulder, a warning.
He nuzzled closer to her neck, but she slid out from underneath him and leaned out to look down the alleyway. In one movement she had picked up the wig and coiled her hair underneath it, pulled the cloak back around her and stepped into her shoes. Then she was gone down the lane, careering straight into two policemen.
She turned on them, her face dark and angry, chin up and petulant before storming off, soaking her shoes in the puddles.
Sean looked after her, her slight figure receding, walking away. The two beat constables looked at Sean, who had just about got his belt buckled, and smiled at each other.
The digital clock flicked over to three fifteen. McAlpine sat up, and heaved his feet out from under the duvet and on to the floor. His head was pounding. He picked up the bill for the room service, a bottle of Pinot Grigio, smoked-salmon salad, a bottle of Taittinger. All at Turnberry prices. Natalie had insisted on it, saying she was used to five-star hotels now. Now.
Now what?
Now she thought she had him in her little claws.
Beside the clock was his mobile, the display blank. He picked it up and stared at it, as if the act of looking would bring it to life. She had turned it off. The stupid cow had turned his mobile off! He began to hit it slowly off his forehead.
He had to distance himself from this, from her.
He stilled as she moved, turning over under the duvet, exposing a bare brown satin shoulder. She was lovely but empty, and he had had enough of her. She was asleep and quiet, though she wouldn’t stay that way. Like the rest, she was young and blonde and beautiful. The artistry of the surgeon had to be admired. Pity he had neglected to sew up her mouth.
He looked at the folded curves of the sheet shaping into her body, the contour of her thighs, her stomach rising and falling. He put his hand on the fine cotton that covered her feet, feeling their warmth, a gentle pulse. Anna, deathly quiet for weeks on end. A yes. A no. But a thousand times more interesting. He sat down on the side of the bed, wishing it was another year, another time, and that he was sitting on another bed with another blonde. One so quiet and so perfect. This one so manufactured and so cheap. He put the mobile down, and started to pull notes from the roll of twenties in his wallet. As he closed it, the light of the digital clock caught the picture of Helena tucked into the billfold.
‘It’s all shite,’ he said loudly, his tongue revelling in the noise. ‘All shite.’ His mind drifted back to the Crucifixion Killer. What had Batten called him – Christopher Robin? McAlpine wondered if this was what went through his mind. Women. Anger. Hatred.
Power?
He held his hand out over the sleeping woman. He could crush her throat with the palm of one hand, right now.
Tempting.
Drunkenly he rose to his feet, got more or less dressed in the dark and swung his jacket over his shoulders, not trusting himself to get his arms down the correct sleeves. He looked away.
Anna? What would she have looked like now, if she had survived? Anna.
He had to distance himself from this.
He was going to get a drink.
Helena had had another restless night. Her body was tired, she was emotional, and she ached for sleep. She had tried a glass of wine and a warm bath with lavender oil, before resorting to Zimovane. Just as the sleeping tablet was taking effect, the storm hit Glasgow and she was wide awake again. She had no idea where Alan was; his mobile was turned off, and the station didn’t know his whereabouts. She had even phoned Colin, who had been polite but vague. She rolled over, pulling the pillow beneath her head. Then over her head as the wind gusted again. She gave up on sleep and got up. Pulling on a pair
of jeans and an old black jumper of Alan’s, she padded down to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and walked away, forgetting all about it. She poured a glass of red wine and picked up a box of Carswells’ truffles somebody had brought for the dinner party. She didn’t like them, but she took one out anyway, sitting on the edge of the sofa and nibbling at the chocolate. She wondered where all the rain was coming from. She wondered about the exhibition. She wondered about the small treacherous lump that had no right to be there.
She picked up the bottle of wine and, tucking the box of chocolates under her arm, walked towards the window. The traffic was quiet on the Great Western Road, the occasional orange tail light glittering in the rain. No cars pulled into the terrace, and she leaned against the wooden shutters, annoyed at herself for looking and hoping. There was no point; he wasn’t coming home. Suddenly lightning silhouetted the street, pointing out to her that her car was missing.
The commissionaire of the Turnberry Hotel held the door open for him, offering the cover of an umbrella for the short walk to the car park. McAlpine refused politely.
‘If you’re heading up the coast road, sir, just take care. It’s a bad road, and there’s a fair blow on.’
McAlpine thanked him.
In the car park, away from the shelter of the building, the wind had whipped itself up to gale force, the rain slashing across the golf links and up on to the car park in horizontal sheets. Alan McAlpine held his jacket over his head as he ran to the BMW.
‘Sober, sober, sober,’ he said to himself, thanking God it was Helena’s car and had remote locking; it could almost drive itself. He concentrated hard to press the key fob and then to aim it at the car, his thumb missing the black button. It took ages to bleep.
McAlpine tumbled in, pulling his wet hair back from his face. He felt a little better, refreshed after a cold power shower of Scottish rain. He adjusted and readjusted the mirror to look behind him, taking care to fire the engine and select reverse, and drove out of the space in what he hoped was a sedate manner, not the over-cautious of the mildly drunk or the slapdash of the too-pissed-to-care. He turned north and drove into the darkness, heading towards the coast road, towards the city, as the clock clicked round to 3.30 a.m.
