Blood Tears

by Michael J Malone

  ‘So you’re a suspected killer then?’

  ‘Looks like it, mate.’

  ‘What you going to do?’

  ‘Find the real killer. Lock the fucker up. And get my life back.’

  Chapter 23

  ‘Hey, this is nice,’ I hear myself say as I walk in the door of Kenny’s flat. Fuckin’ hell, McBain, you’re on the run, a suspect for murder and you’re coming across like a daytime TV presenter.

  One of the walls has a large window that looks like it opens out to a balcony, the floor is laminate wood and the furniture is modern and sparse.

  ‘Glad you like it,’ Kenny smiles. ‘It just became vacant this morning.’ His smile hints at the more “practical” side of his nature.

  ‘Is some poor sod out on the street because of me?’

  ‘I was just looking for an excuse,’ he shrugs. ‘The prick was having too many wild parties. Upsetting the neighbours.’

  ‘Nice view,’ I walk towards the window and get the back view of what looks like a church. To my left and right sandstone dresses the walls of the apartment blocks. This all looks very desirable. I look back at the church. It’s also starting to look very familiar.

  ‘You can see the pigs on their way to get you,’ Kenny is wearing a huge grin. The irony of the situation and the location I find myself in is tickling him so much he’s about to explode and decorate the walls with his insides.

  ‘This is St Andrews Square, ya bastard.’ The church in front of me was recently converted into an upmarket dance hall. In the basement it has a café/bar which is frequented by the lawyers, police and court workers who attend the court buildings around the corner.

  ‘Aye.’ He is actually jumping up and down in an attempt to contain his mirth.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’

  ‘Look. Calm down, Ray.’ He walks over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. I want to take it and break every one of his fingers.

  ‘Where is the best place to hide? Where is the last place they are going to look for you? Right in their midst. That’s where.’

  ‘I suppose…’ I say weakly.

  ‘We’ll just get you a wee disguise and you’ll be as safe as houses. No-one will give you a second look.’

  ‘Aye, right.’

  ‘You got any stuff?’ he asks, all officious now that the funny business has been taken care of.

  ‘Nope. Homeless, jobless and… stuff-less.’

  ‘Make a list of what you need and I’ll see what I can do.’ He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a pen and throws it to me. Then he walks over to the kitchen.

  ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Love one.’ I spot a pad of paper by the telephone and begin to write. Water rushes into the kettle and I hear the clink of a switch.

  ‘What’re you going to do now?’ Kenny’s voice is muffled behind a cupboard door as he pulls out mugs and a jar of coffee.

  ‘Not sure,’ I mumble with the pen resting on my bottom lip. ‘But there’s a few people I need to speak to.’

  We’re both sipping at our mugs when Kenny asks, ‘You lost weight?’

  ‘Fuckin’ funny.’

  ‘Naw, seriously.’ His expression is stretched as he attempts to convey his honesty. ‘You look slimmer.’

  ‘Mind you,’ I pull at the fabric of my waistband. ‘My trousers do feel a little bit looser.’

  ‘You should capitalise on that.’

  ‘What, go and get myself a woman?’

  ‘Naw, ya tosser. You’re on the run from a group of colleagues who know you very well. Do you not think it would be advisable to change your appearance a wee bit?’

  ‘Ah…right. Now I see where you were going with the disguise malarkey…’ I think about this.

  ‘Stay here for a few weeks. Grow a beard. Dye your hair. Lose some more weight. Then you’ll be able to go about without worrying you’ll get spotted.’

  ‘I dunno. It’s all a bit Secret Spy, is it no’?’

  ‘Better Secret Spy than playing I Spy with your new cell-mate.’ He raises his eyebrows, ‘His version will involve sticking his Jap's Eye up your jacksie.’ He rocks his hips back and forward in a lewd motion. ‘I Spy this!’

  ‘Aye, okay. Enough. I get the picture.’

  ‘How did you lose the weight?’

  ‘A steady diet of no food, little sleep and lots of alcohol.’

  ‘You’ve gone to the dogs, man,’ Kenny displays the compassionate side of his nature. ‘We need something even more radical than that.’

  ‘Eh? What’s more radical than that? A holiday spa in Eritrea?’

  ‘Heard of the Atkins Diet?’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘Give it a try then.’

  ‘I hate diets. Know why? Take away the T and you’re left with D.I.E.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘The new me will need some clothes.’

  ‘I’ll get you some down at the market.’ He stands up. I’ve finished writing so he takes my piece of paper. ‘Time to go for the messages.’ I walk him to the door.

  ‘Kenny,’ I place my hand on his shoulder. He turns to face me. ‘I just want to thank you for… everything.’

  ‘No problem, Ray. You saved my arse twice. I’ve been waiting for a chance to pay you back. And this…’ he grins, ‘is kind of ironic. You being the criminal for a change.’ He turns and walks towards the lift with a cheeky wave.

  Now that I’m alone in the flat the enormity of what has happened in the last few hours kicks me in the gut. I’m a fugitive from the very people I’ve dedicated my life to. My stomach is a roiling sea of acid. Holy fuck, McBain. You’ve only gone and done it. You’re a wanted man.

  My whole way of life is under threat: I’ve no job, probably about to lose my home. I’m due to be locked up for the rest of my natural… unless I find out what happened to Connelly.

  Relax, Ray. You work better when you are relaxed. I slide down in my seat and close my eyes. I take a deep, slow breath. My nose fills with the scent of leather from the settee. Exhale nice and slow. In again… and out. My mind is still. Now I imagine my consciousness expanding to take in the room, I’m looking down at myself, then I’m out of the room and above the city. I see buildings, parks, roads and people. Which one of you is the real killer? I can see the River Clyde snaking under bridges, stretching for the sea and freedom.

  Calm down and come up with some ideas. Need to relax. But I can’t. My shoulders feel as if I’ve been giving Arnold Schwarzenegger a piggyback and my arms are rigid. Maybe if I distract myself with something else. I jump to my feet and walk to the window. Watching the traffic flow up the Saltmarket might induce some sort of trance. But they’re moving too slowly. There’s a nice Beamer, a few nice Mercedes and quite a number of four-wheel drives. I wonder how much metal goes up and down that street every day in financial terms. A couple of million pounds worth of car? The rats in the race are setting themselves up quite nicely these days.

  Anger bunches in my jaw, grinds my teeth. How can these men who should know me better treat me like this? Where was the benefit of the doubt? No, instead it’s straight into a cell for you, McBain. Bastards!

  This staying calm thing is really working, eh?

  The need to act has me pacing up and down the floor. Think of a solution, not the problem. The solution not the problem. Who do I need to speak to? Theresa. Another friendly face around now wouldn’t go amiss. Who do I need to go and see? Devlin’s stepson. There’s a story there and I need to find out what it is. Where is he? Manchester University. A few days south of the border might be just what the doctor ordered.

  He’s never so much as laid a finger on a woman. Before today. He was brought up a nice boy. Ha Ha. You don’t hit girls. You are stronger than they are. You could really hurt them, they all said. So he didn’t. Until today. He looks into the mirror and smiles. He tastes the sensation as lips slide across teeth and his cheeks stretch. The row of white gleams under the strong light. He pra
ctises his smile, again and again, noticing the smacking sound his lips make as he does so. The last smile he leaves in place, fixes it as if waiting for a photographer to take a snap. Say hard cheese, you’re dead.

  She’d put up an even better fight than Connelly. Spirited old biddy. She’d even scratched the back of his right hand. Came away with quite a bit of flesh. He traced the long divot of torn flesh with his right index finger and allowed the shudders to work their way through his body.

  And so much for the higher pain threshold that women were supposed to have, she’d squealed enough for ten stuck pigs. It was too much, went beyond pleasing to downright irritating. Still, she’d mercifully passed out when he broke her jaw.

  The sensation that this memory provides has him gasping for air. Every nerve end on his body is thrumming with life. This is what it’s like to be alive, to really live. Everything is crisper, clearer… harder. He can count every pore on the skin that stretches across the bridge of his nose. He can see through the enamel of his teeth, through to the nerve below. His prick is about to burst if he doesn’t…

  A door slides shut and I’m out of my chair as if it was a gunshot.

  I fist my eyes.

  ‘Fall asleep?’ It’s Kenny and he’s got company. One of the walking knuckle-dusters I saw him with previously. They are both carrying branded plastic bags from the local supermarket.

  ‘There’s plenty here. I got everything on your list, I think.’ He rustles through one and plucks out two boxes. ‘As well as these.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I squint trying to read the box.

  ‘Hair dye and hair clippers.’ He points his minder towards the kitchen and motions lifting things out of a bag, is if to say to the big man to put everything away. ‘Oh and this is Calum, by the way.’

  ‘Hi, Calum.’ I say to the broadest back I’ve ever seen. Calum’s social graces could do with some work judging by his lack of response, but I guess that’s not what he’s employed for.

  ‘The instructions are on the packet,’ says Kenny.

  ‘What, for Calum?’ I try for a result. Nothing.

  ‘Naw, stupid. For the dye.’

  ‘I feel a bit daft dying my hair.’

  Kenny turns to the side and humps at the air, ‘I Spy?’ He lifts up the small box, ‘Or hair dye?’

  ‘When you put it like that.’ I walk over to him and accept the box.

  ‘Oh. And the food is all healthy junk. None of your processed carbs here.’ He grins. ‘We’ll soon have you licked into shape. Talking of which, there’s a nice girl I know called Precious. If you want I’ll give her a call.’

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ I don’t fancy having a session with Kenny’s current favourite vice girl. He looks at me disbelievingly and not wishing to hurt my saviour I rush to explain. ‘It’s just that I can’t think about sex right now.’

  ‘It would do you the world of good, man. A good blowjob is the best tension reliever known to man.’

  ‘I’m sure Precious is a lovely girl, but I’m going to have to decline. Unless,’ I wave the bottle at him, ‘she’s a trained hairdresser.’

  ‘You’re on your own there, mate.’

  Two hours later, I’m in front of a mirror, wearing a navy tracksuit by FILA. My T-shirt is another source of amusement for Kenny. It is from Next, and is light blue except for the huge circular target right in the centre, coloured navy and white. The bullseye is a lovely shade of red.

  The hair is something special as well. The last time I saw a haircut like that, Paul Gascoigne had just signed for Glasgow Rangers, resulting in every football fan of a certain blue tint to his or her nose under the age of thirty-five getting their hair cropped and bleached platinum blonde.

  ‘I look like a middle-aged ned.’ I run my fingers through what remains of my hair. ‘All I need is a bottle of Buckfast.’ Kenny is on his knees, stuffing a fist into his mouth, trying to control his laughter. ‘Did you have to get me a tracksuit? And the T-shirt, ya bastard!’

  ‘There’s… not… a policeman in the whole of Strathclyde will know you.’ Words escape past his knuckles.

  ‘That’s true. But they’ll all be chasing me. I’ll be a major suspect for every petty crime committed in the last twenty-four hours.’ A laugh escapes from my throat.

  ‘Listen. The tracksuit is something loose and comfy until you lose your weight. Then I’ll get you some trendy threads. Okay?’ Kenny leaves the bedroom and I can hear his laugh echo in the space of the hall. I follow him downstairs and walk in front of Calum. This time his lack of response should earn him a medal.

  Kenny walks to the main entrance of the flat and turns to me, ‘I need to go now, but I want you to think of this place as your home. Calum will stay and keep you company for a few days.’ He looks me up and down, ‘Don’t go scaring any old ladies.’ Laughing, he opens the door and leaves.

  Dinner is a grilled chicken breast covered in herbs, with some broccoli. Calum cooked it. Without a word he walked over to the kitchen, pulled a few items from the fridge and within half an hour he thrust a plate on to my lap where I sat on the settee. His, he ate at the kitchen’s breakfast bar.

  ‘So where are your instructions, Calum?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’ He must have been brought up well: he finished chewing before he spoke.

  ‘The hair dye had them printed on the box. Where are yours?’

  ‘Oh,’ his eyes have the look of someone who has seen too much. ‘Very funny, sir.’

  ‘Look, Calum. This is hopeless. If you are going to spend any time in my company a personality is required.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘And stop fucking calling me sir.’ I give up. The man thinks he’s playing the lead part in a new movie called Mission Inscrutable.

  In between mouthfuls, I pick up the TV remote and switch on the telly. We have a choice of Neighbours, some bowling competition, the news or another repeat of Friends. Or a plethora of nothing programmes on satellite TV. I could do with a laugh, so I go back to the news. Some news presenter with the hint of a regional accent is talking about the Prime Minister and how he’s fucked up again. Then we have the usual “Let’s Finish with Some Good News” slot.

  Some poor sap has a cat that has been stuck up a tree two hundred times and it’s cost the taxpayer tens of thousands of pounds in call-outs from the Fire Brigade. The cat owner is interviewed wearing his best cardigan.

  ‘I love Benji.’ He’s trying to tell the nation why they should continue to save his best and only friend in the world. Christ, this eejit’s as sad as me.

  Then we have the round-up of today’s news. My face flashes on to the screen.

  The newsreader says, ‘Detective Inspector Ray McBain, wanted by Strathclyde Police for murder, escaped from custody. This man is dangerous and should not be approached by members of the public.’ The piece must have been hurriedly put together because the photograph is pretty blurred. Judging from the building behind me, I’ve just left court and I’ve turned just as some snapper has taken the photo. The blurring effect has been kind. I look almost handsome, in a chubby, cute sort of way.

  Fuckfuckfuck.

  Don’t know why I’m upset. I should have been expecting it. This is big news. It’s not often any policeman, let alone a high ranking one, is a suspect for murder. I have to hope that, by tomorrow, today’s headlines are lining everyone’s fish suppers. Maybe another bigger story will break and I’ll get left alone.

  Theresa will know now. I pick up the phone and dial her number. It’s ringing. Pleasepleaseplease be in.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice is wary.

  Oh sweet relief. ‘Theresa. It’s me.’

  ‘Ray!’ Her voice goes dim as if she’s cupping her hand to the receiver. ‘Where are you? What the hell is going on? Are you okay? I’m worried sick about you.’

  ‘Can you meet me somewhere?’

  ‘What, are you insane?’

  ‘I need to see you. To explain.’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t need this, Ray. The press will be all over you. They’ll find out about us.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, Theresa.’

  She paused just a moment too long for my liking. ‘The thought never crossed my mind, Ray. But do you think running away is going to solve anything?’

  ‘I was with you the night of the first murder, Tess. It couldn’t have been me.’

  ‘I said that I believed you, Ray.’

  ‘Christ, do I need to see a friendly face. Can you come and visit?’ The pleading note in my voice disturbs me, but I am past caring. I need Theresa to be on my side. I give her the address and ask her to get here as soon as possible, before hanging up.

  Calum is on his feet, facing me across the room. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  He must have overheard me. Nosy bastard.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think, Calum.’ Regretting my tone I try again. I should keep on the good side of this guy. ‘Sorry, Calum. It’s just… you heard Kenny earlier. A blowjob is the best tension reliever known to man.’

  He suddenly grins, we are both men together, ‘Why didn’t you say that? I’ll leave the flat when your lady friend arrives. Give you some space.’ He continues to grin, now looking less like a bodyguard and more like a teenager on double helpings of testosterone. I force a grin in reply.

  ‘Must be feeling a bit horny eh? After being locked up,’ he says.

  ‘Aye. I could screw the buttonhole on a fur coat.’ I feel bad about misrepresenting Theresa like this, but it is one sure way of smoothing over her appearance.

  Thirty minutes later the intercom rings. Calum motions me over.

  ‘This your friend?’ He’s all business again. I look at a small screen showing Theresa’s worried, pinched face in black and white. I nod. He buzzes her up and then opens the door, leaves the flat and walks over to the stairwell. The door to the landing opens and he barely gives her a look as they pass each other, he going in, she coming out. I could have kissed him; by not drawing her attention to him he had allowed her to feel some semblance of normality.

  I’m standing in the doorway and with my first sight of her in the flesh, I forget how I must look to her. She looks at me, her expression neutral, and then at the plaque at the side of the door. Then she looks at me again.