Blood Tears

by Michael J Malone

  Just as I’m shaking off the last few drops, the hatch opens.

  ‘They’re coming to take you to the Sheriff at ten,’ a voice announces. ‘A bacon roll do you for breakfast?’

  ‘Aye.’ My stomach rumbles in assent. ‘Kind of gone off my diet.’

  Memory tells me that they do the breakfast round just after seven, when the early shift starts, so I've loads of time to wait. Too much time to think. Remember, think of a solution, not the problem.

  A killer is out there. He has struck again. I know it. But there should be a dead body somewhere. A body with the same wounds on it as Connelly’s, or similar. Unless he has changed his M.O. Possible. Serial killers tend to have some similarity in their methods, a forensic post-it note that leads us right to him. Let’s hope our man hasn’t deviated too much from his script. I walk to the door, turn and walk back to the bed. Got to do something. Can’t just stay here and let some evil bastard pass the blame on to me. I walk to the door.

  Back to the bed.

  Who’ll be able to help me? My colleagues will not want to know. I’ve not only cut off my ties with them, I’ve lacerated them, set them on fire and danced a wee jig on the still-warm embers. No, there will be no assistance there. Besides, they’ve got a strong suspect for the murder. Yours truly. Chalk one up for the department, another case solved. Except they are way off. Couldn’t be more wrong if they said the earth was flat.

  Back to the door.

  Will I get a fair trial? It will be a high profile case. The media will be all over it like dung beetles at Shit Mountain. A senior police officer being caught wrist deep in blood, there’s little chance of a jury not to have heard of the case. What will they call me, I wonder? They love their catchy headlines don’t they?

  Back to the door.

  I can’t do anything while I’m in here. As far as Campbell is concerned, they have their man. They can prove I have a connection to the deceased; that my whereabouts were unaccounted for at the time of Connelly’s death. All they need is a motive and they could come up with that easily enough. A former orphan at the home he worked at murdered a molester of children. Connelly must have molested me, they will say, and then argue that I’ve waited all these years to exact my revenge. Sounds plausible. If I were the investigating officer, I would go for it.

  Back to the bed.

  Then it will be bye bye life, as Campbell so kindly put it. Bye bye arse as well, ’cos it will be fried in that hellhole of a prison. They’ll be queuing up for me.

  Back to the door.

  With their fat, unwashed cocks in one hand and a sharp piece of steel in the other, my life won’t be worth a button.

  Back to the bed.

  Stop worrying about the problem, McBain. What are you going to do about it? The only thing I can do. They are coming to take me to the Sheriff this morning. Thereafter I will be back in secure surroundings till the following week when I will have to plead, then it will be off to the Bar L.

  I have to do it this morning. I have to make a run for it.

  You’re gambling with your life here, McBain. If you get caught, you can throw another few years on to your sentence. If you don’t, maybe you can find the real killer.

  While I wait to be taken across to the court, I formulate a plan. Hopefully it will be young inexperienced guys who will get such a routine job as this. Escort duty is never the most popular. They’ll be unsure how to react to someone who was a big boss just a few days ago. That uncertainty could give me an edge. It’ll mean more black marks on more fellow officer’s careers. I swallow my guilt, some things have to be done.

  I’ve almost worn a groove in the cement floor by the time they come for me. The first man in the door is the blond guy from yesterday. Excellent. His mate, however, looks a bit older. I hold my hands out.

  ‘Right, get the cuffs on, boys.’

  ‘Do we need them, sir?’ the older one asks. ‘It’s not as if you’re going to do a runner is it?’ They both laugh. Their laughter is embarrassed, uncertain, but there is something else there, a note of pleasure that one of the bosses is in trouble. Any guilt I was forming evaporates.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I show a weak smile and adopt the body language of the defeated.

  They part and allow me passage between them and then position themselves at either side. In the narrow corridors of this place that could pose a problem, particularly if we meet someone coming in the opposite direction.

  My heart is thudding almost as loud as our feet hitting the floor. Calm. Keep it calm, McBain. The door ahead opens and a policeman comes through. Beyond that door is a fire exit I know is unlocked. The policeman smiles in recognition of the two men who are escorting me.

  ‘Partick Thistle didn’t do too well last night, Young,’ he addresses the older cop.

  ‘Fuck off, White. They jammy bastards scored in the last minute of extra time,’ PC Young responds.

  ‘Funny how whenever your team lose it’s because the other lot were lucky,’ White replies as he passes me. He gives me a brief look as if he‘s trying to place me and then replaces his smile as he faces Young. I keep walking.

  ‘What do you think, Dunn?’ He must be addressing the blond guy. I’m not looking back to check. Keep it nice and easy, McBain.

  ‘Aye, these bastards are all paranoid,’ says Dunn. Their footsteps pause. ‘Think everyone in the country’s out to get them.’

  ‘Well they are!’ argues Young. ‘Happens every time.’ I put my hand on the door and push it open. No reaction from my guardians. Keep it calm, McBain.

  ‘Oh come on. Just face it, Davie. Your team are shite.’ I step through the door, turn to face the men and hold it open. They both look over at me. My heart pauses. I manage a smile that says I’m enjoying the banter. Dunn takes a step towards me, but makes the mistake of turning to hear what his mate has to say in reply. Still smiling, I flick the snib on the lock of the door with my thumb, step back and slam the door shut before they can react. Then, two steps and I am out of the fire exit.

  Don’t run, I tell myself. As I walk across the car park, the emotional part of my brain is locked away, while the logical one is calculating my next action. The guys won’t be behind that door for too long. Plus they can quickly radio the control room for assistance and then every policeman’s radio in the vicinity will be playing my tune. I need to vanish and fast.

  There’s a row of cars in front of me. My Volkswagen is right in the middle of them. What I would do for the keys. The best place to hide is the one they would least expect. I walk over to my car, check the door. Locked. I bend down as if tying my lace in case anyone looks out of a window and happens to see me. Then I fall forward and crawl under the car and settle for a long wait.

  The search will concentrate on the surrounding area initially before fanning out. Several loud footsteps and several loud shouts tempt me to break into the car and hot-wire it. I could be out of here in seconds. But then I’d have half of Strathclyde Police on my tail. That would be too visible, the logical part of my brain says. Lie here until the fuss dies down and then you can steal your own car.

  More footsteps. They move to my car. I can make out two people. Then I recognise a voice.

  ‘His car’s still here then,’ says Peters. ‘Wouldn’t have put it past him to hot-wire it.’ I daren’t breathe in case they hear me.

  ‘Pity,’ says Allessandra Rossi, ‘Then we would have been straight on to him.’ She says this with no conviction whatsoever.

  ‘You did the right thing, you know that don’t you, Allessandra.’ Peters reads her tone. ‘He’s a killer. He deserves to be locked up.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Of course he does,’ she replies. The uncertainty in her voice lifts my spirits. Perhaps my colleagues haven’t all fallen in with the party line. The situation isn’t quite as hopeless as I thought. Their footsteps fall away from the car.

  I rest my head on my arm and exhale the lungful of air I was holding in. Nothing to do now but wait and judge the right momen
t to make a move. But what would I do? Where would I go?

  First thing I have to do is get the fuck out of here. I’ve no idea what the time is. My meeting was to be with the Sheriff at ten o’clock. So, assuming the guys came for me at 9:30, say, it might just be ten o’clock now. Do I wait until it’s dark? That means lying here until about nine pm. Thankfully, because it’s late autumn, it’s not too cold, but it won’t be dark until after seven. The next change of shift is at two. There will be officers coming and going around then. Some getting into uniform, others getting out of theirs. Unless of course the bosses spring for some overtime because of a certain missing felon. Nah, doubt it. I’m not that important surely.

  So that’s it. Two o’clock I make my move.

  Seconds yawn and stretch themselves into minutes. Minutes awake from a coma and turn into hours. First, I lean my head on one arm and then when it goes dead, I change over for the other. It is out of the question to turn over and lie on my back, the space under the car isn’t big enough to allow movement of my shoulders. I think of Theresa. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Then it occurs to me that when I tried to relax last night in order to sleep, it was her I thought of. It was her arms around me as I nodded off. Sex didn’t even enter the equation, I wanted her to comfort me, pick me up and swaddle me in a cocoon of affection.

  McBain, you are getting soft. Better watch mate, next thing you’ll be buying her flowers and professing undying love.

  I inspect the tarmac. A distraction is needed. A couple of loose stones here and there, a couple of fag ends, a patch of hardened chewing gum that is almost the colour of the road itself. It reminds me of Peters, indeed, it could almost be a metaphor for lots of the men who inhabit the building behind me. Start off life as a pink mass, get chewed up, spat out, driven over and left to accumulate dirt, until they are indistinguishable from the sea of grey that surrounds them.

  Footsteps. Someone is heading in this direction. Are my feet sticking out? As slowly as I dare, I lift them up towards the underside of the car. Holding my breath I crane my neck forward to try and see as much as I can. A pair of feet pause close to my car. They are clad in black leather, but it isn’t the usual boots the uniform guys wear, it’s a pair of well-polished black brogues. Then I hear the beep of a remote key, a car door opens momentarily, then slams shut. The remote sounds again, signalling that the car has been locked again. Damn. Then a hushed voice speaks.

  ‘Shame the boss had to go and escape. If he knew I was here right now, he would be able to see me place the keys for my car, my fucking pride and joy, on the nearside front tyre under the wheel-arch. Then maybe he would be able to escape for real. He can always drop the car off at my house, tonight at the latest.’ I hear the jangle of a set of keys and then the footsteps recede.

  Daryl Drain, you beauty. You could just have saved my life.

  Being an escaped convict while trying not to look like one is a difficult trick to pull off. When people are trying too hard to be inconspicuous, they tend to look quite the opposite. Getting off the ground and into the front seat of that car must be one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.

  Keeping a straight back when all your energy is focused on hunching is well nigh impossible. I send a prayer of thanks skywards for remote controls. At least I don’t have to wrestle with a bunch of keys. I pull at the handle and step into the car. Closing the door, I slide down the seat and from this low vantage point have a good look around me. Excellent. Not a copper in sight.

  Something is digging into my arse. I arch my back, lift up my backside and send my right hand down for a search and grab mission. My fingers close around an object about the size of a mobile phone and some paper. Excellent. It is a mobile phone and the paper is money, along with a scribbled note. A quick count. Ninety pounds. The note is unsigned. It reads “I can get you more if you need it.”

  The engine fires nice and quietly and I’m off. As I negotiate my way into the stream of traffic the back of my neck is burning. I imagine a hundred cops are watching me. No shouts, no sirens. I exhale painfully, not realising I was holding my breath.

  Where to now? I’ll drive the car to Daryl’s house, get a taxi to meet me there and take me somewhere. But where? I can’t go home to mine. Theresa’s? Will she even want to hear from me after my phone calls? I wouldn’t mind her calm, no fuss approach right now. No. I can’t take the risk. But there is one person I can phone. One person who is outside of the law and who will only be too delighted to help

  Daryl’s flat is over in Battlefield; it won’t take long to get there. Most guys keep their car keys and house keys together on the same fob, so if Daryl is like most guys… I reach under the wheel and grope at his key ring. Yes, a few keys there. If I’m right, I could go upstairs to his flat, have a shower, make myself something to eat and then decide on a plan of attack. I need to find myself some security and from there find the bastard who killed Connelly and clear my name. That’s all.

  So simple. Nae bother. A couple of questions. How did Daryl know where I was? And why did he help me escape?

  Driving along the edge of Queens Park on Pollokshaws Road, I turn right into Langside Avenue. The car moves effortlessly down the hill, back up to a roundabout and from there past the Victoria Infirmary and down towards the monument.

  Turning into Daryl’s road, I find a parking space in the narrow street with no trouble. There’s a blue skip hat on the passenger seat with the legend NYC. Daryl once admitted to me that this was his rescue during bad hair days. I put it on. It may be mine today. I don’t want to be recognised going into his flat.

  Apart from the car key, there are another two keys on the ring. One must be for the communal door at the front and the other would hopefully be for the door of his flat. Pulling the hat low over my face I get out of the car, lock it and walk to the door. So far, so good. No shouts of alarm, no shouts of “Stop, murderer!”

  Just as I reach it, the door opens. A man in a dark suit holding a briefcase comes out. Judging by the way he smiles and leaves the door open for me as he exits, he must be a stranger. Probably a salesman. He beams in a “see, I’m a nice guy” kind of way. I ignore him and let the door slam shut behind me.

  Inside the flat I have a quick tour of the place and I’m well impressed. I was expecting lots of boys’ toys, beer cans and clothes flung everywhere, but this is like something out of Ideal Home. Lots of wood, stone and natural fibres. And very tidy.

  The shower beckons. Needles of heat sting my shoulders as steam condenses on the glass wall of the cubicle. I lean against it and savour the feel of water pouring over my body. There’s a bottle of Calvin Klein shower gel sitting on a shelf, none of your soap on a rope for our Daryl. It foams up rather nicely as I rub it all over me.

  Dried and wrapped in a towel, I rake through Daryl’s drawers. I find some clean underwear and ignore his stash of porn. Sad bastard. Living on his own and he still feels he needs to hide it in his sock drawer.

  Clean, clothed and sipping a cup of coffee, I sit in his leather chair in front of the plasma TV and consider my options. There really is only one person I can call right now, so I pull Daryl’s mobile out of my pocket and give Kenny O’Neill a call.

  ‘Ray!’ He sounds happy to hear from me and wary at the same time. I explain what I need.

  ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you back.’ He ends the call. Doesn‘t hang about, our Kenny. Sitting back in the chair I put on the TV and settle in for a long wait.

  The phone rings. That was quick.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ray, you better not be driving and talking on the phone at the same time.’ It’s Daryl.

  ‘Listen, Drain, I’ve got more to worry about than a Dangerous Driving caution.’

  ‘Where are you? Doesn’t sound like you’re driving.’

  ‘I’m at your place.’

  ‘Fine. Help yourself.’

  ‘I just have. Nice porn stash.’

  ‘Fuck off. If there are a
ny more pages sticking together I’ll know who to blame.’

  We both laugh. I’d forgotten what it sounds like.

  ‘How did you know I was under the car?’ I ask.

  ‘The smell. You were fuckin’ mingin’ man.’

  ‘No, really. How did you know?’ I’m all laughed out already.

  ‘We saw you,’ he paused. I could almost hear him decide to tell me the truth, ‘Allessandra saw your foot sticking out when she was in the car park with Peters. He totally missed you. Wanker.’ He laughs. ‘There’ll be no cop of the month award for him then, eh? She came back in and told me and we decided to give you a hand, so to speak. It was touch and go, mind,’ I heard his smile, ‘It would have been funny to see how you reacted if we set the dogs on you.’

  ‘I’d have kicked their arses.’ I am suddenly overwhelmed with everything; my stay in the cell, being under suspicion, the booze, Theresa. And now Daryl and Allessandra’s kindness.

  ‘Listen, Daryl,’ my voice is thick with suppressed emotion, ‘you’ve no idea how grateful…’

  ‘No worries, big man,’ Daryl sounds embarrassed. ‘Whatever else you are, you’re no killer, Ray. Allessandra and I know that. The whole team knows it.’

  ‘Well, not the whole team.’

  ‘Peters is an arse and Campbell wouldn’t know a criminal if he came up and fucked him.’

  I laugh in agreement, ‘I’m going to go away for a while, Daryl,’ and now I’m all business. ‘Do you mind if I keep a hold of your phone? I’ll keep in touch. Oh, and I’ll put the keys for your pride and joy back where I found them.’ He hangs up.

  This chair is so comfortable. I put my feet on the coffee table and close my eyes. Sleep would be a blessing right now. The phone rings.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ray. I’m outside.’ It’s Kenny.

  In the car, he’s all concern.