Sugarcoated

by Catherine Forde

  inflicted on a popular young man who has never been in trouble. While our investigations are under way we entreat anyone who has seen David Griffen recently or who may have information as to his whereabouts before the attack to come forward.’ The last confirmed sightings of Griffen, before he was discovered, have been provided by fellow students who report seeing him jog from the grounds of Hillview Halls of Residence at 6.15pm yesterday evening. At 6.30 a motorist spotted a male fitting David Griffen’s description speaking to the driver of a large black vehicle which pulled up beside him on Maryhill Road. ‘If someone saw David after that, please contact the police,’ urges Mary Griffen, mother of the student, who is waiting by his bedside. ‘There’s a missing link somewhere. Someone knows what happened to my son.’

  I might know something.

  For the umpteenth time since I read the article about poor Dave Griffen –

  I saw him recently.

  I rang his mobile last night.

  Someone else answered.

  Does that make me a missing link?

  – my hand went to the kitchen phone. Dialled the Police Incident Hotline number from the paper. But quit dialling before the call connected. You don’t know anything for sure. You’re always getting stuff wrong.

  Must have gone through the same rigmarole a million times since I blundered home from the news-agent, punch drunk from reading how someone I knew – Dave … who gave me his number … Christ … this is just like something that happens on the telly …

  With my gum tender and raw now the anaesthetic jag had worn off, I couldn’t think past my own pain and shock to figure the right thing to do.

  So down went the receiver. Into the Maltesers delved my hand. Comfort. Comfort. Comfort.

  Back to the Evening Times went my attention, sticky fingers flicking from Dave Griffen’s photo to the black and white reality of the horrible horrible thing that had happened to him.

  Was still happening to him.

  A great big guy like that. Smart. Fit. Hacked down.

  Coma. Broken bones. Blunt weapon.

  And his mum, sitting by his bedside. Waiting for him to wake up …

  I groaned aloud every time I thought about that. Sick to my stomach. OK, too many Maltesers can do that, but to be honest my queasiness started well before I tore into the box I’d bought. And the reason my stomach was churning and cramping and threatening to empty itself from both ends at once had nothing to do with over-indulgence. No. My conscience was poking it, my guts reacting to a truth that my heart didn’t want to face:

  You saw Dave Griffen.

  You ARE a missing link.

  You should be coming forward.

  Admit how close you’ve been to the poor guy. Literally.

  Yeah. You were with Dave Griffen. There when Stefan – your ‘boyfriend’ by the way, Clod – pinned him to the wall and … pinned him to the wall and … Clod. You were there when Stefan warned Dave Griffen he was a psychopath.’

  There was a second missing link to Dave Griffen.

  I was trying not to see it:

  ‘Stefan?’

  My whisper tasted sour as I unscrumpled the page I’d nicked from the dentist’s. Spread it open next to the Evening Times.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I recalled the grinning, white-tuxedoed smoothie guy in the photograph asking Dave Griffen.

  Totally in his face.

  Totally menacing:

  ‘D’you know you’re lucky to be walking out of here?’

  My date had used those very words to someone whose legs were now broken. Who was possibly brain damaged.

  The coincidence – a terrible coincidence – was trying to process itself: Was there any connection between Stefan’s threat and Dave Griffen’s condition now? Shouldn’t I be telling the police my suspicions?

  Shouldn’t I have told them already?

  Please come forward. Any little detail. However small. You were always being invited to do that on Crimewatch.

  ‘Better,’ I mumbled, hand hovering over the phone again.

  But Stefan’s photograph stopped me in my tracks. His warm smile. Those dimples. So cute. So decent to me. Even if I wasn’t the only female in his life.

  He’d be my ex-boyfriend if I grassed him up to the police. Sure as I was never going to win Mastermind or Miss World he’d be my ex. Forever.

  For something he’s probably nothing to do with anyway …

  The longer I stared at Stefan’s photograph, honestly, the less I could ever imagine his lips coming out with something as nasty as ‘Do you know who I am?’ I wondered if I’d misheard what he’d murmured to Dave Griffen. Wasn’t Claudia Cloth-Ears the nickname my toad maths teacher liked to use? Didn’t I get the wrong end of the stick all the time?

  Yeah, and if he did blurt that psychopath stuff, I bet it was just hot air. Bragging. Blokes are like that …

  I nearly convinced myself, remembering how, outside Strut, Stefan had apologised for coming the hard man in front of me. Down on hands and knees. Persuading me he wasn’t really the cruel bastard I’d just seen him being …

  But the spasm in my gut betrayed what I was really thinking. The Deep Truth, as Georgina would have called it.

  Clod, in my head I could hear her: The Voice of Reason. I could even imagine her hand on my wrist. Shaking me lightly, Pay attention to your gut reaction.

  That’s what she’d shrug. End of story. And if I quibbled with her: G, I think I’m putting two and two together here to get three, she’d wave the flat of her palm at me.

  Clod, you know it’s not up to you to decide who’s a missing link or not. Just Do the Right Thing: tell the police you met Dave Griffen. And you better mention Stefan turning all Robert de Niro in Strut while you’re at it. Plus your phone call to Dave Griffen’s mobile. The shouty man. The slapping noises … The cops can check if you dialled the right number. And, Clod – Here would be Georgina’s most emphatic piece of advice – No offence, but see before you phone anyone, scribble down what you say. Then you won’t go tongue-tied and stammery. In fact, hey! I’ve a brilliant idea …

  28

  mind map

  Georgina was massive into Mind Mapping. Not for herself. She’d no need, since she was born with one of those cyborg Total Recall memories that hoovers every fact and figure and detail of the universe. Then regurgitates it word perfect. There’s a special word for that skill. Sounds like ‘idiotic’ though it’s not. That would be me. Shut my eyes once I’d poured my cereal and I wouldn’t recall whether I’d Sugar Puffs or Cheerios in my bowl.

  That was why Georgina became so keen on me trying strategies that might muscle up my own remedial recall.

  Mind Mapping’s an easy one, Clod, she encouraged me during that final study leave before I bombed all my exams. Sheet of paper. Scribble all your main facts. Few words as possible. Bet you’ll find things straighten out in your head better. No offence.

  Poor Georgina. She was so uptight I’d end up failing all the exams I ended up failing, I told her Mind Mapping worked excellently. Liar! Big lazy me used the artist’s sketch pad she bought me, not for Mind Map essay planning, but for extravagant Cloddy doodling while I hummed.

  Jotted random words. Song lyrics. In three weeks of study leave I mind mapped … er … let me get out my calculator … a total of zero about the Second World War or Romeo and Jools. I was more focussed on the important things in life:

  What would Mum be making for dinner? (I’d plot fantasy menus.) Did I feel like a biscuit? (I’d Mind Map all the different varieties I liked, Abernethy to Yo-Yo.)

  Reason I did no work? Well I couldn’t see the point of putting effort into something I absolutely knew I’d never use in the Big Bad World: Hitler’s rearmament strategy? The value of x when y is 7? What Willy Shakespeare said ten thousand years ago? Pah: Frigging relevant that tripe, eh?

  But here was a weird thing: tonight, with Dave Griffen’s nightmare staining my fingertips sweaty newsprint black, I don’t know … compiling
a Mind Map of recent events didn’t seem so mind-numbing. How else could I sort my head before I phoned the police? Couldn’t exactly ring Australia and launch into details of my possible connection to a promising young science student who was fighting for his life. Mum and Dad had enough on their plate. Why give them long-distance panic? Why double it by telling them about a second guy I’ve kinda got involved with, Mumsie? Who I just so happened to have witnessed threatening this science student you know nothing about …

  Eventually, all these details were plotted on a new page of my sketch book. Although, funnily enough, just before I started creating my Mind Map, it looked like I might not need to bother. Because I had a phone call.

  Stefan?

  My heart skipped a beat when I went to answer it. Not quite sure if that reaction was guilt or anticipation. I was in the middle of cutting his photograph from the celeb mag. Spacing it on the other side of a goofy doodle of me. This meant that on my mind map, I was sandwiched between my sweet-talking guy and poor smiley Dave Griffen.

  Stefan wasn’t the caller though, alas and alack.

  ‘Yo. We’ve mutual friends, I hear, Quinny. Starsky, Hutch and Big Marge the Curling Cop.’

  Never one for How are you? timewasting, Uncle Super Mike cut to the chase over a choppy connection.

  ‘You’re part of my case, Marge tells me: Operation Marlin. Like that, Quinny? I thought that name up. Biggest fish I’ve ever gone after, whoever the crazy is behind your dad’s place. What a coincidence though, eh? You a witness in this carry-on. Small world. By the way, I think Marge likes you nearly as much as she fancies me! Thinks you’d make a great cop. Must be your big feet.’

  Uncle Mike was never one for sweet-talk either. Could be why, at forty-five with all his own teeth, a fancy bungalow, and a Porsche, he’d never reeled in his Mrs Mike. Not that it seemed to bother him.

  Oi Grace. Will you leave me be. There are far too many fish in the sea for me to hook a woman, he’d shrug whenever Mum lamented his bachelor status. Like literally too many fish in the sea: herring, salmon, pike. I’ve no time for a wife.

  I loved him to bits.

  ‘Hey. Are you on your way here now? When? Soon?’

  Scissors down, I shouted into Uncle Mike’s laugh. Ignoring the way the line hissed back at me, I kept talking. Having someone so solid and near to speak to made me realise how alone I was feeling. I didn’t want our conversation to stop.

  ‘Listen,’ I prayed Uncle Mike could still hear me. ‘There’s a guy here. Dave –’ I shouted, just as the line cleared totally of static.

  ‘Whhhhat? “A guy called Dave” is it, Quinny? About bloody time.’

  Uncle Mike’s whistle of approval was so blasting I’d to hold the phone away from my ear. But I could still hear him chuckling. ‘And I get the picture, by the way. You’re in the middle of a candelit supper and you don’t want your old Uncle Mike marching in with a carryout curry and a six pack to spoil –’

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ I interrupted Uncle Mike’s frankly ludicrous suggestion. Unfortunately his fantasy had used up the only part of our conversation where the phone reception was decent.

  While I tried to put Uncle Mike straight – ‘See there’s this other guy … I sorta kinda know him … and he might have something to do with Dave. Dave’s been attacked, see. And I’m wondering should I tell the police or …’

  ‘ … a … up … you … What?’ Uncle Mike sounded as if he was punching an escape from inside a giant crisp packet full of cellophane gremlins.

  ‘Hello? Listen, I’ll just wait till you come. Tell you everything instead of the police here. I’d rather do that,’ I tried again.

  ‘Quinny, I can’t hear … word. Are … a blanket chewing Dave’s face off?’

  The way Uncle Mike bellowed reminded me of an old-fashioned recording, volume diluted by distance and time.

  ‘Sorry. Listen, I’ll ring off … you first thing … Dave can have you all to himself tonight. And listen –’ Uncle Mike’s line cleared again. So did the kidology. ‘I don’t know if you can hear this, but Marge and the Weegie boys think they’ve pulled in one of those hammer bams from outside your dad’s shop. You OK about doing an ID parade? I’ll be with you, Quinny, so don’t be worrying –’ Uncle Mike’s voice shrank. Faded. I just about heard him telling me he was going to try Australia. Find out the latest on baby Sean.

  That’ll be an expensive waste of calltime, I thought, trying to reach Uncle Mike again. I used landline and mobile, but had no joy. In case he was doing the same to me I stayed close to the phone, ready to grab the receiver.

  ‘I’m going to tell Uncle Mike everything. See what he thinks about Stefan,’ I promised, my words cutting the silence of the kitchen. So I shivered. Looked over my shoulder, cocking my head and listening for that dreaded snap or creak or scritch and scratch from the other side of a wall that would send me screaming into the night in my bare feet like a wimpy size zero chick from a horror movie.

  ‘Candlelit supper. Aye right!’ Hunched over the kitchen table I hugged myself, wondering how I was going to get through another long night when I was already creeped out. That was why I ended up going back to my Mind Map. It was easier to concentrate on that than force myself upstairs to hunch in bug-eyed terror over my books, hearing noises that weren’t. I stayed put, working harder than I’d done all year on the page in front of me.

  Stefan

  I began under the photo from the magazine. Then I added:

  AKA Stephen

  Mr Josef

  Mr Joe

  to the first name. ‘Why?’ I wondered aloud, and then wrote in tiny writing after I bracketed the three aliases, why does a guy need multiple identities? A pet name, yeah, like mine: Clod or a tag, maybe: Steve-o was normal.

  But four different names? Stefan was Stefan to me, but had been:

  Stephen to Lynne in Strut,

  Mr Josef to Dave Griffen,

  Mr Joe in the magazine.

  I plotted all these links before writing:

  Dave Griffen

  plain and simple beneath the little snap from the evening paper. I drew an arrow, double-headed, from Dave Griffen to Mr Josef. Then connected Dave Griffen to me and wrote down everything I knew about him.

  USEFUL FACTS:

  DG thought I was a thief in Strut.

  Sacked for that (see Stefan).

  Threatened by Stefan.

  Warned me to watch out for Stefan.

  Gave me moby number.

  Someone else answered when I phoned. (Man. Foreign??)

  Angry. Heard background noises.

  Someone getting beat up????

  In coma now.

  My USEFUL FACTS about Dave Griffen ran almost to the end of the page. Now it was Stefan’s turn to have a USEFUL FACTS dossier drawn up about him.

  Likes Minstrels

  I began, trying to be chronological about the information I listed:

  Slight accent. (‘British Citizen on passport’ he told me)

  Two mobile phones. Number dead.

  Snake tattoo on left hand (and back – yuk!!!!)

  Well-off: loads of credit cards. Sports car, jeepy car???

  Student? Chemistry?? (Don’t know what uni – hasn’t

  said)

  Studying ‘compounds’.

  Speaks foreign language: Not French.

  Penthouse flat on Clydeside. Don’t think he stays

  there though.

  In business with dad & uncle – ‘compounds’ …

  I’d listed so many ‘useful’ – if vague – facts about Stefan I had to scribble, in tinsy writing, up the side of the page to fit them in. I could hardly read the information in the bottom corner of Stefan’s column:

  STRUT (where Dave G worked???) Buys a load of designer gear. Regular.

  Turned all Tony Soprano with DG.

  Scary side.

  There was a bit more to add, of course: like Stefan’s Park and Bribe system and the furious foreign-language phon
e conversation he’d taken in Strut that had forced him to end our last date. Plus, I could also mention a certain wad of cash he’d given me before he zoomed out of my life …

  My pen hovered over the squash of USEFUL FACTS about Stefan. He doesn’t look nearly as sweet on paper as he does in the flesh, I gulped. Probably the reason I decided not to bother squeezing in a line about Stefan’s showing up in the magazine. As Mr Joe. Too depressing, having a supposed-to-be boyfriend add up to something dodgy. The Mind Map wasn’t even supposed to be about Stefan. I only did it to straighten out what I knew about Dave Griffen.

  ‘You’ve done that. Bed now. School tomorrow,’ I whispered to myself, steeling my nerves. ‘Upstairs. Come on! You’re knackered.’

  29

  hidden talent

  But have I ever been smart enough to take advice from anyone?

  Especially a dumbo like myself.

  An hour later I was still at the kitchen table, falsetto-humming through every Beatles song I knew to mask the noise of the empty house. I double-soundproofed by crunching my way through a family packet of Dorritos dipped in peanut butter, while I covered every white space left on my Mind Map with a cartoon.