It was utter nonsense, all of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to start again. Instead, he shut the laptop in disgust and lay down on his bed. A short nap couldn’t hurt.
He was awoken by the sound of Dylan knocking on his bedroom door. This was strangely polite for Dylan.
“Jock?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you come out here a sec?”
“Why? What are you doing?”
He followed Dylan to the kitchen table, where he and Robbie had set up a selection of glass slides.
“What’s all this?”
“We borrowed a few bits from Robbie’s biology lab.”
“What are you on about?”
“That blood on your pillow case. It’s not yours.”
“What?”
“Look,” said Robbie. “We have two different solutions here. The first one reacts to type A blood and the second one reacts to type B.”
“Where did you say you got this stuff?”
“We told you, the university.”
“You just took it?”
“Course not. We paid the lab assistant.”
“With what? You’re skint, the pair of you.”
“We paid him in KitKats,” Robbie said, as though the answer was obvious.
Jock shook his head. “Go on.”
“Well,” said Dylan. “I happen to know your blood type is A.”
“How do you know that?” Robbie asked.
“From when I was looking for a liver donor. I tested everyone I know.”
“Yes, it says type A on my donor card,” Jock confirmed. “So what type is that blood?”
“AB.”
“Test it again. There’s got to be some mistake!”
“OK,” Dylan said. “You can watch.”
“How does it work?”
“It’s simple,” said Robbie. “If the blood reacts to the type ‘A’ reactor only, that means it’s type A blood. If it reacts to the type ‘B’ only, then it’s type B blood. If it reacts to both, then it’s type AB. And if it reacts to neither, then it’s type O.”
“Right.”
Robbie performed the test again. The blood from the pillow case reacted with the type A solution, instantly curdling. He tried it with the type B solution and, once again, it reacted.
“Definitely type AB. It reacts to both.”
“What type are you?” Jock asked Dylan, suspiciously.
“Don’t look at me. I’m an O.”
He looked at Robbie. “What about you?”
“No idea,” said Robbie, backing away. “And no one’s sticking a needle in me!”
“The thing is,” Dylan said, “There was quite a bit of blood on your pillow. And also on your shirt last night. If all this blood isn’t yours, then whose is it?”
The Captor and the Captive
I lay in a strange bedroom, tied to a soft, downy bed. The teal curtains were drawn, but I heard traffic noises outside: cars tooting their horns and engines revving, laced with the occasional insult; so I thought I must still be in London.
I strained against the binds that held me, but they were tied painfully tight. There was no wriggle room, I couldn’t move them an inch, no matter how much I struggled and writhed. There was something covering my mouth, too. It tasted faintly of cheap perfume, the kind they flog in the pharmacy. The kind I used to beg my mother to buy me as we waited at the counter for her Valium. Rough material bristled my top lip and I shook with a sudden sneeze that had built and built inside me, but had nowhere to go. I felt the wetness drip from my nose and I strained harder to get my hands free. I pulled with my wrists and wriggled with my shoulders, but the more I moved, the tighter the binds held me.
Panic spread to my chest and my angry heart pounded faster, threatening to jump out of my chest. I screamed but my voice was so muffled that I had no volume. I tried to shout, but I could not get the words out. The world outside was loud and noisy. There were people there, people who would surely help me, if I could just let my needs be known. I attempted to hop off the bed, but one of my ankles was tied to the bedpost. Who even had bedposts anymore? I hadn’t seen one of those in years.
I took a long breath. It wasn’t easy with the gag over my mouth, but I needed to calm down and work out what I should do. I hadn’t seen much when I was taken. It was all so unexpected, that hand that had plucked me off the street. Was I chosen at random, or did I have an enemy I didn’t know about? I tried to think of anyone I might have upset or offended, but my mind drew a blank. I might be a little outspoken at times, but I had not done anything which warranted such ill treatment, and nor was I rich. What did the kidnapper want from me? What could they possibly gain from keeping me tied up like this?
I became aware of a large lampshade directly above my head. It was a pale blue-green colour that clashed with the curtains. The chest of drawers beside me looked neat and tidy. There were none of the usual brushes or combs that you might find on a nightstand, just a large ceramic skull. My fingers tingled as I tried again to separate them from their bindings. My entire body strained with the effort. How I wished I could reach that skull. I knew exactly what I would do with it.
As I lay there, staring at that hideous artefact, I noticed something in my peripheral vision. The door handle was moving slowly downwards. Someone was coming in. I inhaled deeply as the door opened, and then an arm appeared in the room, followed gradually, by a head and shoulders, and finally the rest of the body. A vile young woman approached the bed. There was an expression on her face that I couldn’t immediately identify. She looked as if she had spent all her money at the fair and failed to win a prize.
She held something turquoise in her right hand. It looked like a cheap, disposable razor. I tried to yell, but my protest was muffled by my gag. I screamed at her with my eyes.
Stop! Leave me alone, you madwoman!
“Hold still,” she said. “This is going to hurt.”
She hadn’t lied. I registered a sharp pain as she sliced the razor across the delicate skin of my wrist. I tried to pull away, but then she slashed my wrist again, creating a parallel gash below the first one.
“Mmmm!” came my muffled scream, as she brandished the razor a third time, and cut me again, further down my arm.
She took no notice of my objections and positioned my wrist so that it rested on a large plastic jug. We both watched as my blood trickled inside. Drip, by drip.
“We’re going to need more blood,” she muttered.
The Pigeons of Portobello Market
“We have to call the police,” Jock said.
For once, Dylan didn’t argue.
Jock picked up his mobile phone and looked up the number of the local police station. It was a long time before anyone picked up and when they did, the woman sounded hostile, as if he was the one who had kept her waiting.
“Well?” asked Dylan, after he’d hung up.
“She said someone would call round later this afternoon,” he said, feeling a bit deflated.
“What?” Dylan demanded. “Why can’t they come now? We have found blood. Somebody could have been injured, or even killed.”
“Yeah, but this is London,” Jock said “There must be crimes taking place every minute. In the grand scheme of things, this’ll be way down in their priority list.”
“But what if someone’s hurt? Or dying?”
“Oh, come on,” said Robbie. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“I’m not.” Dylan’s eyes returned to the glass slides. “I’m getting the creeps just thinking about it!”
“What you need is something to take your mind off it,” Robbie said.
“We could go for a walk,” Jock suggested.
Dylan and Robbie laughed raucously.
“No, seriously! Let’s have a wander round Portobello Market.”
“Can I borrow some cash?” Robbie asked.
Jock frowned. “I thought the point of you coming to live with me was that you’d be able to cut down on
your living expenses?”
Robbie scratched his head. “What do you think I’m doing?”
Dylan leaned in. “The thing is, I’m a bit skint myself at the moment…”
Jock sighed and peeled a couple of tenners from his wallet.
“It’s a bit claustrophobic,” Dylan complained twenty minutes later, as they fought their way through the hordes of people coming and going from the market. “What do they need with all this stuff, anyway?”
“You get used to it,” Jock said, leading him up a road filled with brightly coloured houses.
Dylan covered his ears as if a bomb had detonated. “You didn’t tell me there would be jazz!”
“What do you have against jazz?”
“I detest jazz. It’s so chaotic and unpredictable. You can’t trust it at all.”
“Hey look, cheese!” Robbie made a beeline for a table containing trays of samples and dug in as only students can. Dylan followed.
Jock watched with embarrassment as they polished off all the free cheese.
After that, they wandered up and down the street looking at the odds and ends for sale. Jock rarely actually bought anything on these excursions, but he enjoyed looking, seeing what strange things he could find. He particularly liked looking at old watches: chunky digital watches from the eighties, pocket watches and plastic Swatches. In a world where most of his contemporaries had given up on watches, he had come to revere them, like an endangered species.
“Why don’t you treat yourself?” Dylan asked, as he ogled a particularly stunning vintage quartz. “It can’t be that expensive.”
“It is,” Jock assured him, “And besides, I’m not made of money.”
“Why not? You got a big advance on the new book, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but…” Jock paused wondering how much he could tell him. “I don’t dare spend any of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know if I have another book in me.”
Dylan looked at him, appalled. “Of course you do. There’s always another book. Regular as clockwork, you are.”
“I used to be,” Jock agreed. “But something’s changed, and I can’t seem to put it right.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing that a good bottle of wine won’t solve. Have you tried drinking and writing?”
Jock rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Actually, I have.”
“Have you tried taking your mind off things? Going for a walk or something?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“You could try a few simple breathing exercises. They’re great for clearing your mind.”
Clearing his mind. That was the last thing he needed.
“What the devil is that?” Dylan asked, as Robbie marched up to them with a huge plastic frog under his arm.
Jock’s tuned his attention to his nephew, grateful for the interruption.
“What is that thing?” he asked.
“A fertility frog.”
“What in the world would you want with that?”
Robbie shrugged. “Nothing at the moment. But it might come in handy one day, don’t you think?”
“Hey look, there’s a gin distillery!” Dylan’s eyes lit up as he peered through the window. “Just look at all those bottles.”
Before Jock could stop him, he had pushed his way inside and was now standing at the bar, a bar filled with hundreds of bottles of liquor.
“Dylan, I don’t think this is a good place for you right now.”
“But look at it all! It’s so beautiful. All those colours. Did you know gin came in so many colours? And the flavours, look, there’s even an asparagus flavoured one.”
“All the same, I think we’d better…”
The bartender walked towards them. “Get I get you some drinks, lads?”
Dylan’s mouth watered, and Jock glanced nervously at Robbie.
“No, we were just looking,” he said firmly. “Maybe another day.”
He took Dylan’s left arm, and Robbie took his right and they marched him out of the distillery, before he could destroy another liver.
“I can have one drink,” he whined.
“No, you can’t,” Jock said firmly. “It’s never just one with you, is it?”
Dylan did not appear to be listening. He sniffed the air like a dog who had caught a scent.
“What in the name of Bleddyn is that?”
Jock looked around. “What, you mean the chip van?”
“Chip van,” Dylan repeated in a sing-song voice. “That sounds lush.”
They charged towards the van and bought cones of chips, slathered in salt and vinegar. Then they sat down on the curb to eat. The chips were as delicious as they had smelled, crispy on the outside, soft and satisfying in the middle. Jock crammed a handful into his mouth. Glorious!
“Off with you! Scratch! Ruddy pigeons!” Dylan yelled, as a pair of pigeons waddled over.
Incited by his words, a really fat bird jumped off a nearby roof and flew at him in a valiant attempt to steal his cone. Dylan waved his arms frantically, and hurled a torrent of abuse at it in Welsh. The pigeon squawked loudly. The poor creature had probably never heard Welsh before. It ran along the street, as fast as its podgy little legs could go. It seemed to have forgotten how to fly.
“Flipping thing nearly took my hand off,” Dylan muttered, returning to his chips. “I hate pigeons. I mean, what are they even for? What possible purpose do they serve?”
“What’s with you? You’re acting like you’ve never even seen a pigeon before,” Jock said.
Dylan grunted. “Fleckford pigeons have much better manners.”
A young woman sidled up to Jock. “Give us one,” she implored, twiddling a strand of her auburn hair.
Obligingly, Jock held out his cone, and she took a few and ate them from her hand like a horse.
She was dressed in a grey pinafore dress that could easily have doubled as a school uniform. The ditsy outfit gave her the appearance of a little girl, playing at being a woman.
“What a nerve!” Dylan spluttered, guarding his own chips tightly.
Jock laughed. “It’s alright, I know her. Yara is our downstairs neighbour.”
“Is that so?”
Dylan regarded her with the same look he’d given the pigeons.
She grinned. The gap between her two front teeth was large enough to house an extra one.
“Jock was kind enough to give me one of his books when he first moved in,” she said, the wind whistling between her teeth. “And now, I’m hooked.”
She looked at Jock with admiration and he felt himself redden slightly. He never knew what to do with a compliment.
Robbie shrugged. “I prefer dragons myself.”
“How’s the new book coming?” Yara asked, licking the salt from her fingers.
Jock clenched his fists. “Great,” he said. “Just great.”
“Brilliant. Can’t wait to read it!”
She looked like she was about to say something else, but then her great hulk of a boyfriend came out of the second hand shop, carrying a computer.
“Alright, Kenneth?” Jock said.
Kenneth grunted.
Jock wasn’t sure he’d ever heard him speak. They made an odd couple, Kenneth and Yara. If she resembled a little girl, then her boyfriend looked like an escaped convict with muscles to rival Popeye’s. His head was roughly shorn and his eyes were dull and glassy, as though he was bored with life.
“Well, I’d better crack on,” Jock said, jumping to his feet. “The book’s not going to write itself.”
“No, of course not!” Yara tittered. “Just give me a knock if you need a beta reader. You know I’m only too happy to help.”
Kenneth gave him a long, hard stare, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in what could possibly be described as smile, but it was hard to tell for sure. Then the pair of them meandered into the shop opposite, the one where they let you ice your own biscuits.
“The
re are two types of women,” Dylan said, watching Yara skip away. “Those who have more shoes than books, and those who have more books than shoes. She’s definitely one of the second lot.”
“Maybe,” said Jock. He hadn’t quite made up his mind about Yara.
The Jug
The vile woman did not speak as she taped my injured arm to the jug.
“So as not to waste the blood,” she’d said.
She made no attempt to hide her face from me. Never wore a balaclava, or any other disguise. It bothered me that she didn’t care how much I stared at her, memorising every freckle, every mole. She removed my gag and I gulped at the air,
“Please can you untie my hands, too so I can scratch my nose? Or even…” I shuddered at what I was reduced to. “Scratch it yourself?”
She made no move to do either of these things, and I seethed with frustration.
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked. “When are you going to let me go?”
She refused to answer any of my questions, and I realised too late that I hadn’t asked the right ones. I hadn’t asked anything about her. I tried to form a question in my mind. I couldn’t ask her name, or anything too personal. Perhaps I should ask her if she liked animals. Did she have any pets? A cat perhaps, since I would have heard a dog if she had had one. Too late, she put the gag back on me, though slightly looser than before.
“Mmm,” I cried through the rough material, but it was no use. I could say what I wanted, but no one would hear me. I had lost my chance.
Before she left the room, she turned on the radio on for me. It was tuned to the local station. They read the news on the hour. All local stuff about how they weren’t going to allow monkeys at the carnival, and some story about a pigeon attacking some poor unfortunate man, and robbing him of his mobile phone. When interviewed, the victim admitted he was quite happy for the break from civilisation.
“That pigeon has given me my life back,” he said. “Before, I felt like I was plugged in, twenty four hours a day. Now I feel free as a, I dunno, as a…”
The Perfect Friend Page 3
