by Val Penny
Joe began to think about getting up and walking home. He wanted to be home before Mary-Ann got back and noticed he was not there. That was important. She would be angry. But what did she have to be angry about? It was him who had the right to be angry.
He felt vaguely uneasy when he thought about Mary-Ann. She had told him things. Things that were not right; they could not, should not be right. Things he did not want to hear. She was cruel to him. Unkind. Screaming. He had lashed out. Of course he had. He struggled to remember clearly why he was screaming, and why she was screaming, and why she ran out. What happened then? He’d won at the dominoes and got lots of free beer. Still, he felt bad. Why did he feel so bad?
It was too difficult to stand up. His bottom was too near the wall. His bottom was damp; the grass was wet; it was raining. He did not want to open his eyes. His brain hurt. Joe tried to roll over to the left. That did not work. He tried rolling to his right, with no more success. He just could not get up. His knees were hooked onto the wall. He paused. He wriggled his bottom further away from the wall and then stopped to think. He was quite out of breath. He took his hands out of his pockets and scrabbled on the lawn. His hands and nails got grubby with grass and mud, but it was easy now. He pulled himself over and rolled so that he could stand.
He fished his cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and staggered home.
Mary-Ann did not come to the door, maybe because he was so quiet. But he could not get the key into the lock. It was the right key. It was his only key. It was the right door. It was the door to his house. Joe tried again. This time he opened his eyes. His brain still hurt. The key turned.
With his finger to his lips so he stayed silent, he crept noisily into the bedroom, pulled off his clothes all the way to his socks, and fell into bed. There was no sound from Mary-Ann’s side of the bed. He closed his eyes and was soon dead to the world.
When Joe woke up, he needed a pee. He got out of bed, turned around twice and opened the door. He held his cock while he pissed confidently into the wardrobe before he turned, tripped over his trousers and fell back onto the bed. He slept well into the next day.
Mary-Ann was not there when he woke. At work, of course. Annie was out. She would be at school.
Joe's head throbbed. Why had he dreamt about Frankie Hope? That boy came from bad blood. Joe closed his eyes to open his aching mind to the previous day. He breathed deeply. This room smelt funny. He got up. He still had his socks on. That was a lucky break, he did not want to have to bend down that far. Joe grabbed his boxers and t-shirt off the floor and pulled on yesterday's trousers. They were damp. The floor was wet. He stood and screwed up his face trying to work out where that leak had come from. But he did not want to look up. It would hurt far too much.
He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and left the flat. Hair of the dog, and all that. He felt that would help.
Joe staggered back down to the pub. Dominoes at Bennett's was the order of the day.
Chapter Five
Thursdays were Frankie's favourite evenings. Mam and Pop were out. Tonight, Mam was at bingo and Pop was out with his mates, probably ruining somebody else's evening by fleecing them. Pop came over all nicey-nicey, lent the poor saps the money they needed, and then told them what would happen if they didn't keep up the sky-high interest repayments. Later, Pop and his boys went to the pub, propped up the bar and drank some of their night's profits. His parents were such an embarrassment.
So, Frankie had the house to himself. It was the one time he had peace to really work on his face. Frankie Hope examined his reflection in the mirror.
He did not see the large hazel eyes, fringed by long dark eyelashes. He did not see his thick wavy brown hair, cupid-bow mouth, or the enviable bone structure that set his features. All he saw was the acne. Everybody except Annie teased him about it. Even Pop. Frankie sometimes wished he could just take a razor over his forehead to get rid of the pimples and pus.
He knew the reflection that stared back at him was different from the face he deserved. He should be rugged and handsome. No spots or blemishes, no scabs or scars. Like Harry. Frankie missed his older brother. Harry looked out for Frankie when he was here. But since he left school and joined the Army, Frankie had to fight his own battles. He wasn't good at it.
Still, Annie liked him. He didn't know why, but he was glad. You only had to look around to know she was the prettiest girl in the school. Annie was going to be a beautician. She told him how to treat his acne, and tonight, he had time to try.
So there he was, in the kitchen, watching the kettle boil. He picked absent-mindedly at a spot with a finger nail bitten down to the quick, then wiped the pus onto his jeans. Frankie poured the boiling water into Mam's big baking bowl and sat at the kitchen table gasping for breath under a bath towel, attempting to get rid of the spots and blackheads that blighted his life.
Ten minutes later he rinsed and dried the bowl and hung the towel back in the bathroom. No evidence for Pop to mock him. It wasn't his fault he got Mam's spots; Harry, like Pop, had none.
Frankie put on the exfoliating gloves Annie had given him. He rubbed the cleanser all over his face and scrubbed hard, really hard. Annie told him to be gentle, but he couldn't help it. He just wanted to get rid of the pimples, especially the ones on his forehead and chin. He felt like, if he rubbed hard enough, he would scrub the acne off.
When he stopped scrubbing and rinsed his face it was red and sore, but most of the blackheads on his chin had gone. His forehead and cheeks looked like the surface of the moon: little craters filled with puddles of blood. Frankie realised he'd swapped spots for scabs. Great! Maybe he had scrubbed too hard. Maybe Annie had been right. She’d told him not to squeeze. Not to pick. Easy for her to say; she had beautiful clear skin with the pretty freckles that made her look so sweet.
It was surprising that Annie had not been in touch this evening. She said she had something more to tell him. He would see her tomorrow at school. She could tell him then.
Then Frankie stared at the monster. The huge white pus-filled blot that dominated his jaw. There was no disguising it; it had to go. He didn't care if Annie did know he had squeezed it. It was too horrible. He pulled the right side of his jaw over to the left and ran his thumb over the large spot on the side of his face. It was tight and white and ready to blow. He raised the knuckles of his index fingers to start the exorcism.
He could not believe his luck. He must have got the pressure just right, and the pimple exploded. Pus shot out and hit the mirror with a smart Crack!. Yuck. He squeezed again and a little more gunk oozed out, followed by a drop of blood.
Frankie cleansed his face again, this time with an antiseptic wipe. Ouch! He blotted the marks on his forehead, cheeks and jaw with aftershave. Wow, that stung. He smiled tightly: better. He didn't think he looked good, but better.
He smeared the pus and blood off the mirror with toilet paper. Mary-Ann would clean that next time she was in. Mam liked it that Mary-Ann was their cleaner.
He dragged his blue, plastic, disposable Gillette two blade razor over his chin and cheeks. The blades beheaded a couple more small pimples. Some of his scabs came off too, and spots started bleeding as he scraped at his face. He spent a few moments admiring his handiwork, and then closed his eyes while he sprayed aftershave on the offending visage.
Annie had such perfect skin. What did she see in him? He ran his finger down the razor to get rid of the junk between the blades, and cut his finger. Tears sprung to his eyes as he sucked the wound.
He hated his acne so much. He hated it when Pop called him Spotty or Crater Face. When Harry was there, he would have a go at Dad and defend Frankie. But now Harry was away in the Army. Frankie wondered what Afghanistan was like. He did not envy Harry that, but knew his brother loved his chosen career.
Frankie drew his attention back to his reflection, and applied the antiseptic tinted moisturiser Annie had given him.
Why she had not contacted him this
evening? He knew she liked him. So pretty: long red hair, green eyes. Smiling. She never made a joke at his expense. She wanted to be with him. Why? How could it be? It made no sense to him. He looked down, and noticed he was erect just at the thought of her.
The front door slammed. Mam was home. Frankie couldn't be bothered with her grumbling and gossiping tonight. He legged it out of the back door and down to the pub. He would relax with a pint. That was one good thing: at least since he'd turned eighteen, Pop couldn't grass him up to the barmen.
Frankie thought they should just keep quiet about Annie being preggers. He knew how old Joe would react. Joe had never liked him. Frankie was not even really sure it was good news to him.
Of course, Harry would say he was a fool, and then support him, as always. Harry would be such a good uncle! His cousin, Jamie, would give him a hard time. Jamie teased him mercilessly anyway. But twins! That's what Annie had said, twin girls. Still, they said a boy could father a son but it took a man to father a girl. So it must be a super-hero that fathered two girls at once!
Frankie absent-mindedly picked at a spot on his chin as he stood at the bar and ordered a pint with a whisky chaser. He didn’t usually drink spirits, but today was special. He might even marry Annie. No, that was a silly thought. She wouldn't go for that, anyway he was too young to settle down. Too young to be a father, really. And they only did it once. Well, twice, but both on the same occasion.
He would have to tell his pop. Put up with his teasing. That would not be easy, but it would be easier than telling Joe. On reflection he was really glad he did not have to tell Joe. He would leave that to Annie. Joe was her father; that was her problem.
He was staring into his beer, daydreaming about his future, a future with Annie, with twins. So when his father came into the bar and slapped Frankie's shoulder, the lad started abruptly.
“What brings you here, Frankie, lad?” Billy Hope asked his younger son. “And whisky? That's not like you.”
He held Frankie's shoulder a little too long and Frankie shrugged him off.
Billy got the order for the round from his companions and joined his son at the bar. He offered Frankie another pint too, which he accepted. Frankie did not drink a lot and it was a school night. Billy looked puzzled.
“You got a girl up the duff or something?”
Frankie, sweating furiously, blushed.
His father burst out laughing. “You have! You stupid prick, yes, the jungle drums have been beating. I wondered when you would get around to telling me.” He laughed again at his unintended wit. “That girl you've been talking about?”
“Yes. Annie, Annie Johnson. You know, Mary-Ann's daughter. The prettiest girl in the school,” Frankie blurted out. “And it's twins!”
“You what? Now that I didn't know! I told you to keep away from that bitch!” Billy looked completely taken aback. He was not laughing now. “You got my fucking cleaner's girl up the fucking duff? Your mam is furious, you stupid fucking prick.”
“How did you know? How does Mam know? I haven't told anybody.”
“I know everything that happens around here. The receptionist at the medical centre congratulated me. That didn't help.”
“What? That should never have happened! Annie and I, we have rights.”
“Your Uncle Ian knows, too, so I've had to explain a few things to your mam. You never make my life easy, do you, Frankie? How about Afghanistan for you too? Harry never causes me grief.”
Frankie still could not understand why Pop was quite so irate. It couldn't just be that Mary-Ann did for them. His father was a bully and an arse, but not a snob. Frankie thought that was just as well, as Pop had nothing to be snobby about.
Then Billy whispered quietly into Frankie's ear. Nobody else heard what he said, but the news hit Frankie like a sledgehammer. He stared at his father, who nodded and moved away slightly.
“You are an idiot, son. But don't you worry, I'll sort it. I'll wipe your fucking backside, as I always do.”
Billy left Frankie, shocked and alone and staring into his pint, and returned to his mates. When one of them asked why there was a holdup bringing over the drinks, Billy was all smiles. He laughed loudly and heartily.
“My son is to be a father, lads!” he shouted. “Drinks all round.”
He bought drinks for everyone in the bar. His glance shot daggers at Frankie.
“Who is the lucky lady?” asked his pal.
“Wee Annie Johnson. Bonny girl. At school with Frankie. Her mother does for us. It seems like my lady who does has a daughter who does too!”
Frankie watched as Billy pretended to joke. Billy watched his son as he sipped his drink, then shook his head before turning back to his mates and joining in the chat. Suddenly it was all about him becoming a Grandad.
Frankie wondered why was it always all about Billy. So he finished his pint and left, leaving the whisky and the second pint untouched.
Frankie walked home. The wind probably made it feel colder than it was. It blew the rain into his face. His jacket was thin; he had not stopped to grab a warmer one. He wished the icy wind would scour away his spots, but he knew better.
Frankie walked faster. He knew his father was furious. But what he'd said: that was just evil. It couldn't be true. Pop was just saying that to make his point. He'd always preferred the family to stay under the radar rather than being in the spotlight, except that time Pop was a Councillor. Pop enjoyed that.
Frankie remembered how angry Pop had been when Uncle Ian got caught on that bank job. He also knew his father had escaped his share of the law's wrath for that because Uncle Ian kept his mouth shut. Mam was always reminding Pop of that.
Frankie's phone rang.
“Jamie, what's up? You're where? What?”
Frankie listened as his cousin's story went from bad to worse.
“Jamie, mate, it's maybe lucky you've broke your ankle. It'll keep you out of my pop's way for a while.” Frankie paused. “Well, I'll come down when I can. Tomorrow probably. Jaffa Cakes? Aye, fine.”
Frankie rang off. Frankie knew his pop was angry with him, but now he could have a rant about Jamie too. It might take some of the heat off Frankie and Annie, but it didn't solve the problem. Still, it wasn't his fault, even if it were true. Dad would have to sort it.
Maybe he would buy them a house. Frankie would talk to Annie about it. Somehow, it would all work out.
Chapter Six
Hunter Wilson sat at his desk on Friday morning. Young Myerscough would not be starting with him till Monday. Pity. It would have been an education to take him to the post mortem. Not to worry. There would be other chances to test the lad's mettle.
His gut told him the corpse found on his patch was not the result of an accident. Hunter did not like the thought of murder on his watch; it was even worse than this influx of cocaine. As soon as Rachael Anderson arrived they would head over to the Scottish Parliament building, interview Sir Peter and find out what he had to say for himself. Probably more than Hunter wanted to listen to, but he might have some insight into the burial site. After all, even if the man was an oaf, he had over 25 years experience on the force to draw on.
Hunter did not like the Scottish Parliament building. It had been designed by a Spanish architect who died before its completion, probably of shame. The project was completed ten times over budget and nearly three years late. As the DI mused about what would happen within the police force if it tried to proceed on that basis, Rachael walked in.
“Morning, Boss. I got time for coffee?” she asked, clearly more in hope than expectation.
Hunter shook his head and tossed her the car keys.
“Will this take long, do you think?”
“Not if I can help it. Anyway we have to be back for the briefing at 10am.”
Rachael was silent as she drove them to the bottom of the Royal Mile. She pulled up outside the modern Scottish Parliament building, then trotted up the stairs ahead of Hunter as if they were part of a dressag
e exercise.
Inside, the detectives showed their badges and asked for Sir Peter Myerscough.
“I'm sorry. Sir Peter phoned to say he had had a break-in last night and had stayed at The New Club on Princes Street,” the admittance clerk said. Then she added. “Very nice, the New Club, I believe.”
Hunter grunted.
The clerk ignored him and went on: “He had to go home to supervise repairs. He is to speak to his insurers, I believe. He won't be in until the joiner has finished work on the broken doors and replaced locks. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Fucking arse,” Hunter said.
“No thanks, no message. We'll contact Mr Myerscough at home,” Rachael said.
“Sir Peter to you, I think, officer.”
“Detective to you.” Rachael smiled and held the door open for her boss. Hunter paused in the entrance and turned back to speak to the clerk.
“Actually, yes, there is a message. Please tell the honourable member that we were here, as arranged,” (Hunter stressed those two words) “between 8 and 10 am. If he wishes to report the break-in formally and obtain a crime number for his insurance purposes, he will need to call into the station today between 4 and 5pm to meet me there and make a statement.”
He smiled at the DC as they left. “That pompous oaf really is a prick, Rache. Let's get that coffee now. I'm not rearranging my day for him.”
They ducked into the nearest cafe and ordered two large white coffees and four bacon rolls. Hunter was almost calm by the time they got back into the car.
Rachael looked at him.
“Is Tim going to be able to work on this, with his dad being the victim?”
“No Rache, not his dad's case, but don't worry. We'll find something to keep him busy. It's not as if we only have one case at a time!”
“True. Are you going to his housewarming party?” she teased.
