Blood Tears

by Michael J Malone

  This is a place of acceptance. There’s no greater act of acceptance required than to acknowledge the truth of someone’s death. Perhaps I can learn something here. Acceptance. Three syllables that have a depth and resonance I worry is beyond me. Whatever did happen to me at Bethlehem House has to be faced up to and soon.

  This place is glorious in its sluggish decay, I think as I climb up the path. My pace slows down to a walk here, although I pump my arms in a facsimile of a jog. The grass is kept trim, but weeds climb up each plinth, as if to blur the edge between man and nature. A couple of gravestones are laid flat like over-sized granite coffin lids, a ploy, I read somewhere, to stop grave robbers from helping themselves.

  Daryl and Allessandra are standing by the base of John Knox’s statue. Even from here I can see the outsized grin on Daryl’s face, like he thinks it’s hilarious that I’m running. Allessandra is huddled within the folds of her coat and her eyes are roaming everywhere but on my face.

  ‘All right, guys?’ By their side now, I run on the spot, partly to keep warm and partly to wind Daryl up.

  ‘When was the last time you took some exercise, Daryl?’ I ask

  ‘Did some horizontal jogging last night.’

  ‘Wanking’s become a sport then?’ Allessandra jumps in.

  ‘Ha fucking ha. Her name was Debbie, if you must know.’

  ‘I’d rather not, thank you. You should never come between a man and his guide dog.’

  ‘So what’s new, guys?’ I ask. The banter is all well and good, but we need to get working.

  ‘Nothing much, Ray,’ Daryl answers. ‘You’re still Suspect No 1. We’ve found no more connections between you and the victims or between Connelly and the more recently deceased.’

  ‘We visited your old friends at the seminary,’ adds Allessandra. ‘One old boy remembered you… not unfondly, was how he put it. Said there was an incident. Broke some poor boy’s ribs. The brass were creaming themselves over that one. Proof that you have a history of violence.’

  ‘All your old cases have been pulled as well, Ray. Just in case you used violence to secure a conviction. They don’t want something there to rear up and bite them in the arse.’

  Daryl’s comments were to be expected. I would have done the same thing.

  ‘This all leads back to Bethlehem House. I’m sure of it. There’s a link there between McCall, Connelly and Devlin.’ And me. ‘Has anyone gone back there?’

  ‘No. They feel there is no real need anymore.’ Allessandra answers while looking at her feet and stamping them in a vain attempt to heat them up. ‘The connection has already been established. You killed Connelly to avenge some wrong. The other two were in the wrong place at the wrong time while you satisfied your sick lusts.’

  ‘They’re hoping that when we get you back into custody, you’ll tell us why you did the other two,’ Daryl joined in.

  ‘What a pile of crap. They can’t find a connection so they just think wait and see. That’s their great piece of detection. For fuckssake, can’t they see this case has more holes in it than my Dad’s Y-fronts?’ I’m starting to get cold now and hop from one foot to the other. ‘Somebody needs to get back to Bethlehem House. I can’t. Mother Superior will be straight on to the police. We need to get in there and have another look at that list of names. See if either Leonard or Hutchison were there when Connelly was at work.’ I already know this to be the case, but I prefer that they find out for themselves.

  ‘I’ll go,’ says Allessandra. ‘They already know me.’

  ‘Anything else, Ray?’

  ‘Aye. Get me photographs of those two. See if it dredges up any memories. Right. Thanks again guys. Now fuck off before I get hypothermia.’

  ‘You’re no joking.’ The cold has eventually begun to reach Daryl. ‘Can we no find somewhere less exposed to have our wee meetings?’

  ‘Aye. Why don’t set up our own wee incident room in Pitt Street? See how the bosses feel about that. We can always cite the glacial winds blowing across the city as being detrimental to our investigation.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking smart, McBain. I meant somewhere else as in warm, dry and anonymous.’

  I smile, ‘Just yanking your chain, DD.’ I note the way that he spoke to me and the way that Allessandra didn’t hold her breath while she waited for my reaction. We’re no longer boss and colleagues, we’re all friends and we’re in this together.

  ‘Point taken, Daryl.’ I punch him on the arm, in lieu of a hug. ‘Now fuck off will you?’

  I’m in the hotel room and I’m about to crawl up my own arse with worry. It’s been two days since I spoke with the guys and my only company has been Calum and a TV set. How can folk watch that crap all day? And night? Sleep has also been a tad elusive. Now that I’m working on this whole acceptance thing I’m afraid of the stuff that’s going to fill my dreams. But I can’t stay awake forever.

  At least I’m eating again. Calum, as usual, is in charge of provisions and as he is a man who treats his body like the proverbial temple, the food is nutritious and boring. I fancy a night of hotel food. Saliva brims from my mouth at the suggestion of sauces and steaks, cakes and custard that fills the hotel menu, but Heil Calum is to be obeyed on this. No sense in losing all that weight and starting to bloat up again. Besides, he added, they’ll start to recognise you. Beaten by his logic, I back down.

  Can’t do anything about the TV either. There are some movies, but I don’t fancy any of them. Besides, I doubt I can concentrate long enough to follow the story. So, TV it is and a veritable feast of other people’s misery, recipes and grand houses is there for my delectation. Then in the evenings it’s soaps and robbers. Coronation Street followed by some generic police drama. Fuckssake. They should dish out Prozac with the TV licence.

  Just watching the Scottish news. The First Minister is speaking to a less than rapt audience. One guy, who has a monk’s tonsure and goatee that looks as if its been culled from an arctic fox, is resting one hand on his chin. Two fingers are resting on his neck, stretching up to just below his ear. As if he’s checking for a pulse.

  Know the feeling, mate. Got to do something. Got to do something. I can’t just sit about here. I punch Kenny’s number into the phone.

  ‘Kenny. Gimme your motor.’

  ‘What do you want my car for, ya tosser?’

  ‘I’m about to die with boredom. If I don’t get out of this room I swear I’m going to be the first case of rigor mortis with a pulse.’

  ‘Have a wank. That always gets me going of a morning.’

  ‘I’m all dried up.’ We share a laugh. ‘No, seriously, Kenny, I need to get out for a wee while.’

  ‘Okay.’ He’s still laughing. ‘I’m in the middle of something just now. Can you hold on for a couple of hours?’

  Kenny insists that Calum stays with me. For some reason, Kenny‘s becoming even more protective. Maybe I‘m giving off some signals. If I am on anyone’s hit list, Kenny says, Calum will be a deterrent. Not only that, the police are looking for a solitary male. The latter is logic I understand.

  In the car, Calum doesn’t bother to ask where we’re going. He just sits in the passenger seat with a bag of fruit on his lap and grazes.

  ‘Ah’m detoxin’.’

  ‘Right.’ Fascinating. This guy should stand for Parliament with conversational powers like this. Polite stuff out of the way, I can now lose myself in my own thoughts. When I did eventually drop off last night, I dreamed about Theresa. We were staying in the same hotel. I knew she was there but couldn’t find her room. I would approach each door with my pulse hammering in my ears, open the door and the room would be empty. Time and time again I opened a door and nothing. Doesn’t take a psychologist to work that one out. But I can’t go chasing her right now. For one thing I don’t want her to get caught up in all this and for another, I feel she needs space to work out what she really wants.

  If anything, my feelings for her have intensified. I’m just doing a good job of ignoring h
er face when it slides into my mind. Night is a different matter. I have no conscious control over my dreams. The blessing is when I’m dreaming of her, I’m not re-enacting the death of a certain paedophile.

  The Beamer slides along the M8 like there’s cruise control and then there’s mellow. Effortless driving. The M8 curves round to the M77 and I’m heading down to Ayrshire without really articulating this is where I want to go. Half an hour later and the deep purr a cat makes when you stroke it issues from the engine as it idles at the side of the road in front of Bethlehem House.

  Calum’s brain rouses from wherever he sends it.

  ‘That’s some building. What is it?’

  ‘A convent.’

  ‘Right. Must have been a few bob went into making that.’ His head swivels and his eyes meet mine. ‘So this is where you were brought up?’ His look is empathic. Like he has just considered what it might have been like to live in a place like this. For the first time I catch a glimpse of the person behind the mask of muscle. ‘What was it like?’

  How do you dilute ten years of lovelessness into a single phrase?

  I settle for being concise.

  ‘Shite.’

  We both turn and look at the building. It is in an excellent state of repair, but for all the people who spend the currency of their daily lives within its walls it looks empty. A covering of ivy here and there might have offered at least an illusion of life. Even the garden with its crew-cut lawn looks stark. Here and there the brown of the earth is exposed, where de-populated flowerbeds hibernate in anticipation of winter. In the centre of each bed the dark twisted sticks of heavily trimmed rose bushes escape the soil, like just-breathing victims of genocide.

  A figure is hunched over a flowerbed in the far right-hand corner. From here their gender is indeterminate. A hat covers the head and offers no clue. Clothing is a green boiler suit. He or she is slim, waist fanning out into shoulders of average width. It must be a guy. No woman would have buttocks as scrawny as that. Unless it’s an anorexic nun. No, they had a gardener in my day, why would it change? The gardens extended up the left-hand side, past the chapel and out into the rear, where there was more than double the land I could see from here. If memory served me right.

  He turns and walks closer. A skip hat is pulled low over his forehead. I’ve decided it’s a man. No tell-tale bumps on the chest to indicate otherwise. All I can see of his face is nose and chin. They are as sharp as the thorns he has just been trimming. Does he know about his predecessor, I wonder? Mind you, it’s not exactly the thing you tell someone at interview. Oh, and by the way, one of the last guys who held this job was a paedophile. Looking at the cut of this guy’s mouth makes me feel it would be a thrill. This may even be his favourite season. He waits all summer for the colour of the leaves to curdle and slowly and carefully snips off each flower and each leaf, preferring a stick covered with thorns.

  Christ, who’s got a dose of the mental shits? Some poor guy is just doing his job and I’m getting all suspicious like a tabloid vigilante.

  The clues are in that building. Maybe if I wandered its halls I would pick up on something.

  ‘You’re not going in there.’ Calum’s eyebrows are raised. He must have read the intensity rising from me like a shimmer of heat.

  ‘And you’re going to stop me?’

  ‘Aye.’ No emotion. Just an honest answer. If only I had a pair of handcuffs, some pepper spray and a baton I might be able to subdue him. Without these things I have no chance.

  Back at the hotel, Calum is having a shower. I’m lying on my bed pretending to be asleep, in the hope that he will fuck off for a wee while and give me peace. The radio is on, another Boy Bland is droning on about love. They’ve had to come in out of the rain, to stop the pain, apparently.

  Worry temporarily alleviated by our wee run in the car, I’ve jumped back into a state of agitation. I need to do something. There’s been no word from Daryl and Allessandra, so I don’t know if they’ve managed to look into things yet.

  I should just lie here, head braced against a couple of pillows and open that locked corner in my mind. What is the source of all my dreams? Dreams, not memories. Definitely dreams.

  I am no killer. Who was the nightmare man? Was he real? Was he Connelly? If he did… do stuff to me, wouldn’t I have some kind of scars or something?

  I can’t keep still. I sit up. Walk to the window. Go back to the bed. Do the relaxation exercise, going over each body part. Get as far as my neck and sit up again. I can’t relax like that. All kinds of stuff crowds in.

  Maybe I should give Maggie a call. See if her “gift” could tell me something. Yes. I am that desperate.

  Lie down again, Ray. Do the exercise like your life depends on it. Because it does.

  Breathe in slowly to a count of nine. Out to a count of nine. Relax the scalp. Relax the forehead. My eyelids are like white sheets hanging on a washing line. My limbs are sinking into the bed. So heavy. A crystal is hanging in my mind. Spinning. I’m heavy. So heavy. Light tinged with rainbow colours shoots around my skull, reaching the darkest corners. Heavy. So heavy…

  A feather has fought loose. First the white stem. Then the fibres that spread like a delicate fur. Its flight is brief. Mere feet, before it falls in a lazy see-saw towards the ground. As it gets nearer my teeth tighten, my breath fails to get past the blockage in my throat. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Catch the feather before it lands.

  Can’t breathe.

  Catch the feather.

  When it lands, I die.

  Fuck. I sit up like my waist is spring loaded. What was that all about? I can remember a feather. And an incapacitating feeling of panic. My jaws are aching.

  I swing round to place my feet on the floor and in doing so touch my pillow with my left hand. The pillow is soaked with my sweat. I stand up and my legs feel weak.

  I allow my pulse to slow and the blood to return to my legs before walking over to the window. What is going on? I need to do something. This can’t go on. I need help.

  I should go and visit Maggie. But first, I am going to ignore her advice. A visit to Devlin has to be the first thing on my agenda. McCall surely won’t be there, but he might have been in touch. If I play the old We Had a Terrible Childhood Together card, she might open up to me. I probably should stay here to be on the safe side, but just like medical staff make the worst patients, I can’t stand someone else to do the detection work for me.

  ‘Calum?’ I shout as I place my ear to the toilet door. No response. He can’t hear me for the rush of water from the shower. He’s probably having a fly chug. I shouldn’t disturb the boy. I’ll just leave quietly. Kenny will give him a pasting for leaving me alone, but tough titty. I’ve a killer to catch.

  Chapter 32

  Devlin opens the door to Allessandra’s knock.

  ‘You’re McBain’s bint.’

  ‘Colleague is a more popular term in the force.’ Allessandra lets the insult slide. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Got a warrant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then fuck off.’

  ‘You and McBain must have been friends all those years ago.’

  ‘Aye. We did everything together. Went for long walks, had picnics and read poetry. Now will you fuck off?’

  ‘So why did you act like you’d never met him before when I was here last?’

  ‘He hasn’t changed a bit, as well. Looked just like the wee boy I remember. Except with longer legs. And whole load more of fat.’

  ‘So why did you…’

  ‘I’m telling you nothing,’ Devlin said with a smile that Allessandra wanted to wipe off with a spiked knuckle-duster.

  ‘The truth will come out, Carole. Eventually. You may as well tell me now and save us all a lot of bother.’

  ‘Listen, hen. I know why you’re here. He’s your boss. You think he’s innocent and you’re trying to clear his name. All very commendable. All very Hollywood.’ Her expression is wild, triumphant even. She’
s getting a real kick out of this, and Allessandra wishes she had ignored her impulse to pay the woman another visit. ‘Except, wee pal, this is real life. And your mate DI McBain is a murderer. I know, ’cos I was there.’ Her face is in Allessandra’s, scraping her skin with her breath. Beer and cigarettes.

  ‘Are you saying you’re an accessory?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing, darling. Now either come back with a summons or one of them warrant things, or fuck off and die.’ With the suddenness of a thunderclap, the door is slammed shut.

  Back at her flat, Allessandra is sitting on the edge of her brown leather chair, and leaning forward, all but hugging her knees, wishing that she smoked.

  This is not good. The more she looks into this to try and help Ray, the worse it all looks. So what does she know? Not only does Ray have the motive and the time to do the killings, but he also has a background that should come with the heading How to Breed a Psycho.

  What should I do? she asks herself. What would you do, Dad? In the absence of an answer she picks her mobile up from the coffee table and presses in a few numbers.

  ‘DD. We need to talk.’

  He is banging on her door within the hour.

  ‘Make me a coffee and tell me what’s up.’ Daryl says and follows her through to the kitchen.

  While the kettle works its way up to steam, Allessandra outlines her thoughts. Daryl is impassive.

  ‘Ray McBain is not a killer, Allessandra.’

  ‘But even Devlin says he is.’

  ‘That would be Carole Devlin, the surrogate mother for our number one suspect?’

  ‘Aye. I know. But you weren’t there. You didn’t see her face. She was telling the truth. She saw something.’

  ‘She was confirming your biggest fear. There is a difference.’