by Val McDermid
"I don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?"
"Genesis chapter four, verse nine," Weird said smugly.
"For fuck's sake, Weird," Mondo said. "Are you not over it yet?"
"You don't get over Jesus, Mondo. I don't expect someone as shallow as you to understand that. False gods, that's what you're worshiping."
Mondo grinned. "Maybe. But she gives great head."
Alex groaned. "I can't take anymore. I'm going to bed." He left them to their sparring, luxuriating in the peace of a room of his own again. Nobody had been sent to replace Cavendish and Greenhalgh, so he'd moved into what had been Cavendish's bedroom. He paused on the threshold, glancing into the music room. He couldn't remember the last time they'd sat down and played together. Until this term, hardly a day had gone by when they hadn't sat down and jammed for half an hour or more. But that had disappeared too, along with the closeness.
Maybe that was what happened anyway when you grew up. But Alex suspected it had more to do with what Rosie Duff's death had taught them about themselves and each other. It hadn't been a very edifying journey so far. Mondo had retreated into selfishness and sex; Weird had disappeared to a distant planet where even the language was incomprehensible. Only Ziggy had stayed his intimate. And even he seemed to have taken to disappearing without a trace. And underneath it all, a dissonant counterpoint to everyday life, suspicion and uncertainty gnawed away. Mondo had been the one to utter the poisonous words, but Alex had already been providing an ample feast for the worm in the bud.
Part of Alex hoped that things would settle down and return to normal. But the other part of him knew that some things, once broken, can never be restored. Thinking of restoration summoned Lynn to his mind, making him smile. He was going home on the weekend. They were going to Edinburgh to see a film. Heaven Can Wait, with Julie Christie and Warren Beatty. Romantic comedy seemed like a good place to start. It was an unspoken understanding between them that they wouldn't go out in Kirkcaldy. Too many wagging tongues quick to judgment.
He thought he'd tell Ziggy, though. He'd been going to tell him tonight. But, like heaven, that could wait. It wasn't as if either of them was going anywhere.
* * *
Ziggy would have given all he possessed to be anywhere else. It seemed like hours since he'd been dumped in the dungeon. He was chilled to the bone. The damp patch where he'd pissed himself felt icy, his prick and balls shriveled to infant size. And still he hadn't managed to untie his hands. Cramp had shot through his arms and legs in spasms, making him cry out with the excruciating pain of it. But at last, he thought he could feel the knot starting to give.
He gripped his aching jaw over the nylon rope once more and jiggled his head this way and that. Yes, there was definitely more movement. Either that or he was so desperate he was hallucinating progress. A tug to the left, then a jerk backward. He repeated the motion several times. When the rope end finally curled free and whipped against his face, Ziggy burst into tears.
Once that first turn was undone, the rest came away easily. All at once, his hands were free. Numb, but free. His fingers felt as swollen and cold as supermarket sausages. He thrust them inside his jacket, into his armpits. Axillae, he thought, remembering that cold was an enemy of thought, slowing the brain down. "Think anatomy," he said out loud, recalling the giggles he'd shared with a fellow student when reading how to rearticulate a dislocated shoulder. "Place a stockinged foot in the axilla," the text had said. "Cross-dressing for doctors," his friend had said. "I must remember to put a black silk stocking in my bag in case I come across a dislocation."
That was how to stay alive, he thought. Memory and movement. Now he had his arms for balance, he could move around. He could jog on the spot. A minute jogging, two minutes resting. Which would be fine if he could see his watch, he thought stupidly. For once, he wished he smoked. Then he'd have matches, a lighter. Something to breach this appalling blank darkness. "Sensory deprivation," he said. "Break the silence. Talk to yourself. Sing."
Pins and needles in his hands made him twitch. He took his hands out and shook them vigorously from the wrists. He massaged them clumsily against each other, and gradually the feeling came back. He touched the wall, glad of the sedimentary roughness of the sandstone. He'd begun to worry about permanent damage because of the circulatory cut-off. His fingers were still swollen and stiff, but at least he could feel them again.
He pushed himself to his feet and began to lift his feet in a gentle jog. He'd let his pulse-rate rise, then stop till it returned to normal. He thought about all the afternoons he'd spent hating PE. Sadistic gym teachers and endless circuit training, cross country and rugby. Movement and memory.
He was going to make it out alive. Wasn't he?
* * *
Morning came, and there was no Ziggy in the kitchen. Concerned now, Alex stuck his head round Ziggy's door. No Ziggy. It was hard to tell whether his bed had been slept in, since Alex doubted he'd made it since the beginning of term. He returned to the kitchen, where Mondo was tucking into a vast bowl of Coco Pops. "I'm worried about Ziggy. I don't think he came back last night."
"You're such an old woman, Gilly. Did you ever consider he might have got laid?"
"I think he might have mentioned the possibility."
Mondo snorted. "Not Ziggy. If he didn't want you to know, you'd never find out. He's not transparent, like you and me."
"Mondo, how long have we been sharing a house?"
"Three and a half years," Mondo said, casting his eyes to the ceiling.
"And how many nights has Ziggy stayed out?"
"I don't know, Gilly. In case you hadn't noticed, I tend to be away from base quite a lot myself. Unlike you, I have a life outside these four walls."
"I'm not exactly a monk, Mondo. But as far as I'm aware, Ziggy has never stayed out all night. And it worries me because it's not that long since Weird had the crap beaten out of him by the Duff brothers. And yesterday I got into a ruck with Cavendish and his Tory cronies. What if he got into a fight? What if he's in the hospital?"
"And what if he got laid? Listen to yourself, Gilly, you sound like my mother."
"Up yours, Mondo." Alex grabbed his jacket from the hall and made for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to phone Maclennan. If he tells me I sound like his mother, then I'll shut up, OK?" Alex slammed the door on the way out. He had another fear he hadn't mentioned to Mondo. What if Ziggy had gone out cruising for sex and been arrested? That was the nightmare scenario.
He walked across to the phone booths in the admin building and dialed the police station. To his surprise, he was put straight through to Maclennan. "It's Alex Gilbey, Inspector," he said. "I know this is probably going to sound like a right waste of your time, but I'm worried about Ziggy Malkiewicz. He didn't come home last night, which he's never done before…"
"And after what happened to Mr. Mackie, you felt a bit uneasy?" Maclennan finished.
"That's right."
"Are you at Fife Park now?"
"Aye."
"Stay put. I'm coming over."
Alex didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned that the detective had taken him seriously. He trudged back to the house and told Mondo to expect a visit from the police.
"He'll really thank you for that when he walks in with that just-fucked look on his face," Mondo said.
By the time Maclennan arrived, Weird had joined them. He rubbed his tender, halfhealed nose and said, "I'm with Gilly on this one. If Ziggy's fallen foul of the Duff brothers, he could be in intensive care by now."
Maclennan took Alex through the events of the previous evening. "And you've no idea where he might have gone?"
Alex shook his head. "He didn't say he was going out."
Maclennan gave Alex a shrewd look. "Does he go in for cottaging, do you know?"
"What's cottaging?" Weird asked.
Mondo ignored him and glared at Maclennan. "What are you saying? You calling my pal
a queer?"
Weird looked even more baffled. "What's cottaging? What do you mean, queer?" Furious, Mondo rounded on Weird. "Cottaging is what poofs do. Picking up strangers in toilets and having sex with them." He gestured with his thumb at Maclennan. "For some reason, the plod thinks Ziggy's a poof."
"Mondo, shut up," Alex said. "We'll talk about this later." The other two were taken aback by Alex's sudden access of authority, bewildered by the turn of events. Alex turned back to Maclennan. "He sometimes goes to a bar in Edinburgh. He's never said anything about here in St. Andrews. You think he's been arrested?"
"I checked the cells before I came out. He's not been through our hands." His radio crackled into life and he moved into the hall to answer it. His words drifted back into the kitchen. "The castle? You're kidding… Actually, I've got an idea who it might be. Get the Fire Brigade in. I'll see you down there."
He came back in, looking worried. "I think he might have turned up. We've had a report from one of the guides at the castle. He checks the place over every morning. He rang us to say there's somebody in the Bottle Dungeon."
"The Bottle Dungeon?" all three of them chorused.
"It's a chamber dug out of the rock under one of the towers. Shaped like a bottle. Once you're in, you can't get out. I need to go over there and see what's what. I'll have somebody let you know what's going on."
"No. We're coming too," Alex insisted. "If he's been stuck in there all night, he deserves to see a friendly face."
"Sorry, lads. No can do. If you want to make your own way over there, I'll leave word that you're to be let in. But I don't want you cluttering up a rescue operation." And he was gone.
The moment the door closed, Mondo laid into Alex. "What the hell was all that about? Shutting us up like that? Cottaging?"
Alex looked away. "Ziggy's gay," he said.
Weird looked incredulous. "No, he's not. How can he be gay? We're his best friends, we'd know."
"I know," Alex said. "He told me a couple of years ago."
"Great," Mondo said. "Thanks for sharing that with us, Gilly. So much for, 'All for one and one for all.' We weren't good enough to hear the news, huh? It's all right for you to know, but we haven't got the right to be told our so-called best mate is a poof."
Alex stared Mondo down. "Well, judging by your tolerant and relaxed reaction, I'd say Ziggy made the right judgment call."
"You must have got it wrong," Weird said stubbornly. "Ziggy's not gay. He's normal. Gays are sick. They're an abomination. Ziggy's not like that."
Suddenly, Alex had had enough. His temper flared rarely, but when it did, it was a breathtaking spectacle. His face flushed dark red and he slammed the flat of his hand against the wall. "Shut up, the pair of you. You make me ashamed to be your friend. I don't want to hear another bigoted word from either of you. Ziggy's taken care of the three of us for the best part of ten years. He's been our friend, he's always been there for us and he's never let us down. So what if he fancies men instead of women? I don't give a shit. It doesn't mean he fancies me, or you, anymore than I fancy every woman with a pair of tits. It doesn't mean I've got to watch my back in the shower, for fuck's sake. He's still the same person. I still love him like a brother. I'd still trust him with my life, and so should you. And you—" he added, stabbing a finger into Weird's chest. "You call yourself a Christian? How dare you sit in judgment on a man who's worth a dozen of you and your happy-clappy nutters? You don't deserve a friend like Ziggy." He snatched up his coat. "I'm going to the castle. And I don't want to see you two there unless you've got your fucking acts together."
This time when he slammed the door, even the windows rattled.
* * *
When Ziggy saw the faint glow of light, he thought at first he was hallucinating again. He'd been drifting in and out of a kind of delirium, and he had enough insight in his lucid moments to realize he was beginning to go into hypothermia. In spite of his best efforts to keep moving, lethargy was a hard adversary to combat. From time to time, he'd slumped to the floor, in a dwam, his mind rambling in the strangest of directions. Once, he'd thought his father was with him, having a conversation about Raith Rovers's chances of achieving promotion. Now, that was surreal.
He had no idea how long he'd been down there. But when the glimmer of light appeared, he knew what he had to do. He jumped up and down, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Help! Help! I'm down here. Help me!"
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the light became painful. Ziggy shielded his eyes from its brightness. "Hello?" echoed down the shaft and filled the chamber.
"Get me out of here," Ziggy screamed. "Please, get me out." "I'm going for help," the disembodied voice called. "If I drop the torch, can you catch it?"
"Wait," Ziggy shouted. He didn't trust his hands. Besides, a torch would come down the shaft like a bullet. He stripped off his jacket and his sweater, folded them and placed them in the middle of the faint pool of light. "OK, do it now," he called up.
The light juddered and bounced on the walls of the passage, flashing crazy patterns against his startled retinas. It spiraled suddenly out of the shaft and then a heavy rubber torch plopped neatly onto the soft sheepskin. Tears stung Ziggy's eyes, a physiological and emotional reaction rolled into one. He grabbed the torch, holding it to his chest like a talisman. "Thank you," he sobbed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"I'll be as quick as I can," the voice said, tailing off as its owner moved away.
He could bear it now, Ziggy thought. He had light. He played the torch over the walls. The rough red sandstone was worn smooth in places, the roof and walls blackened in patches with soot and tallow. It must have felt like the anteroom to hell for the prisoners kept down here. At least he knew he was going to be freed, and soon. But for them, light must only have brought increase to their despair, a recognition of the futility of any hope of escape.
* * *
When Alex arrived at the castle, two police cars, a fire engine and an ambulance sat outside. The sight of the ambulance made his heart pound. What had happened to Ziggy? He had no difficulty gaining access; Maclennan had been true to his word. One of the firemen pointed him across the grassy courtyard to the Sea Tower, where he found a scene of calm efficiency. The fire officers had set up a portable generator to run powerful arc lights and a winch. A rope led down into the hole in the middle of the floor. Alex shivered at the sight.
"It's Ziggy, right enough. The fireman's just gone down in a sort of hoist. Like a breeches buoy, if you know what that is?" Maclennan said.
"I think so. What happened?"
Maclennan shrugged. "We don't know yet."
As he spoke, a voice trickled up from below. "Bring her up."
The fireman on the winch pressed a button and the machinery howled into action. The rope coiled on a drum, inch by tantalizing inch. It seemed to go on forever. Then Ziggy's familiar head rose into sight. He looked a mess. His face was streaked with blood and dirt. One eye was swollen and bruised, his lip split and crusted. He was blinking at the lights, but as soon as his sight cleared and he saw Alex, he managed a smile. "Hey, Gilly," he said. "Nice of you to stop by."
As his torso cleared the funnel, willing hands pulled him clear, helping him out of the canvas sling. Ziggy staggered, disorientated and exhausted. Impulsively, Alex rushed forward and took his friend in his arms. The acrid smell of sweat and urine clung to him, overlaid by the earthy smell of dirt. "You're OK," Alex said, holding him close. "You're OK now."
Ziggy hung on to him as if his life depended on it. "I was afraid I was going to die there," he whispered. "I couldn't let myself think like that, but I was so afraid I was going to die."
17
Maclennan stormed out of the hospital. When he got to the car, he slammed his hands against the roof. This case was a nightmare. Nothing had gone right since the night Rosie Duff had died. And now he had the victim of abduction, assault and false imprisonment refusing to give a statement about his attackers. According t
o Ziggy, he'd been set on by three men. It was dark, he didn't get a proper look at them. He didn't recognize their voices, they didn't call each other by name. And for no good reason, they'd dropped him down the Bottle Dungeon. Maclennan had threatened him with arrest for police obstruction, but a pale and tired Ziggy had looked him straight in the eye and said, "I'm not asking you to carry out an investigation, so how can I be obstructing you? It was a just a prank that went too far, that's all."
He wrenched open the passenger door and threw himself into the car. Janice Hogg, who was in the driver's seat, looked a question at him.
"He says it was a prank that went too far. He doesn't want to make a statement, he doesn't know who did it."
"Brian Duff," Janice said decisively.
"On what basis?"
"While you were inside, waiting for them to give Malkiewicz the once-over, I made a few inquiries. Duff and his two bosom buddies were drinking down at the harbor last night. Just down the road from the castle. They took off about half-past nine. According to the landlord, they looked like they were up to something."
"Well done, Janice. But it's still a bit thin."
"Why do you think Malkiewicz won't give a statement? You think he's frightened of reprisals?"
Maclennan sighed. "Not the kind you're thinking of. I think he was cottaging down by the church. He's scared that if he gives us Duff and his pals, they'll stand up in court and tell the world Ziggy Malkiewicz is a poof. The lad wants to be a doctor. He's not going to take any chances with that. God, I hate this case. Everywhere I turn, it ends up going nowhere."
