by SJI Holliday
‘Dad – is he still there? I’m probably being stupid, it’s just, I—’
She hears her dad sigh. Hears her mum in the background, muttering, ‘Just tell her, Stan.’
‘Dad?’
‘They can’t find him, Marie. He was on a day trip. Somewhere near Edinburgh. They don’t know how it happened, but he didn’t get back on the bus. They tried to keep it quiet. We’ve told them they need to get it on the news. Warn people. I’m sure he won’t try to find you, but it might be best if you went away for a few days. They think they’ll find him soon. The police are on to it now. Try not to worry.’
‘Try not to worry? There’s only one person he’ll want to see if he’s out of there, Dad.’ She realises she’s shouting. Out of control. She pauses. Takes a breath. Feels a shiver. The cat squeezes up tight against her leg, rubbing itself against her. Mewling. The cat senses it, too.
That scrape again. Someone upstairs. Oh God . . .
‘Dad, I have to go. I’ll phone you back.’
‘Marie, wait—’
She can still hear his voice, saying her name, pleading with her, when she hangs up.
She stares up at the ceiling. She takes a knife from the knife block, the sharpest one in there. Then she curls up on the couch, knife in hand. The cat jumps up and sits on her feet. Marie lies still. She is in waiting. She knows that sleep is never going to come.
19th July 2015
Marie,
I told myself I wouldn’t get annoyed with you. I never liked getting annoyed with you. But you’re not playing the game here, Marie. Why the fuck aren’t you replying? Do you know how difficult it was for me to get your address? Do you know how difficult it is for me to get hold of a pen and paper, so I can write these without anyone seeing? Do you know how difficult it is for me to get these letters posted? Do you know how much it pains me to suck up to that bitch in the office, let her think I like her so she’ll help me do the things I need her to do? It’s not like I can just pop out to the post office. Buy some stamps and an ice cream on the way back.
Do you know how difficult it is for me to be in here without you?
I read a thing about losing someone being like having a limb cut off.
That’s what it feels like, Marie. I feel like someone has cut one of my fucking limbs off. The least you could do is reply.
How are Mummy and Daddy?
Are they dead yet?
I hope so.
Graeme
22
Laura stays in bed for most of Saturday. She managed to stagger home after seeing Mark with Hayley and Gaz at the shows, and, God, was she suffering for it now. Drinking that wine had been stupid. Not like her at all. Her head is thumping and her mouth is as dry as a budgie’s cage.
What. An. Idiot.
Going there in search of Mark, planning to confront him . . . it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It started when she was sitting there after work, all freshly showered and excited about the night. As the moments turned to minutes, turned to ‘he’s not turning up’, she’d felt herself get more and more wound up.
By the time she’d stormed out of the pub, she was furious. She’d kicked over that bin and left it there, rubbish strewn all over the pavement. This wasn’t her. She didn’t act like this. Did some sort of hormones get released after you’d had sex for the first time? Something more than the endorphins from the physical activity? Something that made you mad with rage? Apoplectic. That was the word for it. Hopping fucking mad. Not to mention even hornier. If he’d been waiting for her outside the pub, pretending not to show up to wind her up, she’d probably have punched him in the face before dragging him round to the car park and screwing his brains out up against the bins.
She’d loved being with Mark. Taking control. Watching his face. Seeing the realisation in his eyes, that OK, maybe she was new to this, but oh my God was she a quick learner. She could still taste him on her lips. She could still picture what he did to her. With his hands. With his mouth. He’d gone down on her, kissed her afterwards. Grinning, waiting for her to react at tasting herself. She’d loved it. Loved all of it. Besides, she hadn’t gone in there completely naive. She’d read stuff online, read about what to do. She’d watched stuff . . . It made her cheeks grow hot, thinking about that. Being terrified of getting caught. It was part of the thrill.
But something that Mark said had given her a jolt. The way he’d looked at her when he’d called her ‘a wee nympho’. It wasn’t said affectionately. He’d almost said it like it was a bad thing. Like she should be ashamed. But why should she? It was fine for the boys to go and shag whoever they liked. She’d actually waited. For him.
Stupid.
Had he only been nice to her – taking her to the shows, taking her for a picnic – so that he could get what he wanted? Was he really that shallow? And was she really so stupid to have thought otherwise? Was it all about the bravado – him running off to tell his mates what a goer she was. Go on, lads, take a punt. She sucks like a hoover. She fucks like a bunny. Her fanny’s like warm apple pie . . . She’d heard all this stuff before, about other girls. Maybe this was just how it was. A rite of passage.
Fuck him.
It makes her feel sick. She wants to cry, but she won’t give him the satisfaction. And it’s not just him – she confided in Hayley too. She’d seriously misjudged that bitch. She imagined her shagging Gaz, that horrible greaser from the shows. I hope she gets an STD, she thinks, that’ll teach her.
Laura sighs and throws back the covers. She needs to get up. Forget about this. Luckily they used condoms, and, even luckier, there was no way anyone saw them. Imagine if he’d filmed it, or taken photos.
She picks up her phone from where she’d left it charging beside the bed. She hadn’t turned it off, but she’d put it on silent and turned it away so the light flashing for new messages wouldn’t bother her. Assuming she got any messages.
Yep. Three missed calls, two text messages. All from Mark. None from Hayley, which cemented her opinion that Hayley was a two-faced cow and most definitely not to be trusted. Anyway, they’d be back in school soon. Luckily this had happened in the holidays. There’d be a new scandal by next week. Things would go back to normal. She’d get on with her work and forget about the embarrassing summer encounter. She’s not going to go all Sandra Dee about it. Expect Mark to fall at her feet when she turns herself into a sexy Lycra-clad vamp. If he doesn’t like her as she is, then that’s his problem.
He’s the idiot. Not her.
She starts to feel better, mentally at least. Although her head is still pounding. Luckily her mum hasn’t come up to see why she’s still in bed. It makes her realise, though, that she has no one to talk to about all this stuff. Hayley was an error of judgement. The girls in her crowd at school don’t talk about sex. They’re nice, but they’re boring and bookish and Laura often feels like a bit of a misfit there. Yes, she’s academic, and she’s sporty, but she’s not dull. She’s sensible, but no way is she boring. It’s clearly time to expand her circle of friends. Maybe going into the sixth year will help. A lot of people will have left, gone on to college or taken jobs. There’ll be a different crowd. Her registration class will change. There’ll be opportunities to meet different people. It’ll be fine.
She gets out of bed. Stands up too quickly and feels a rush of blood to her head. She needs sugar. Some food. A can of Sprite. She would kill for a can of Sprite. And some headache tablets.
She opens the messages on her phone. Weak apologies. No explanations. ‘Meet me’, one of them says. Fat chance. She decides to call someone else. Someone who will make her feel good about herself again. Davie. He’ll understand. He was a boy once. Hopefully he can tell her that they grow out of it, and that not all men are pricks. Because at the moment that’s exactly how she feels.
He answers straight away.
‘Laura, nice to hear from you. What’s up?’
The words tumble out. ‘Oh God. Do you fancy a coffee tomorrow? I
need to tell you something. I’ve been an idiot. I’ve no one to talk to. Please?’ She chokes on the words, realising the threat of tears hasn’t gone away just yet.
There’s only a slight pause before he replies. ‘Sure. I’ll get the cakes in.’
Laura hangs up, feeling a little bit less of an idiot than she did before. She just needs her brain to co-operate now; it needs to have a word with itself about trying to bash its way out of her skull.
23
Davie orders two lattes and two cakes: one carrot with cream-cheese frosting and the little black seeds on the top, one chocolate fudge. He walks up to the back of the café and chooses one of the booths, sitting with his back to the far end of the room so that he can see everything that’s going on. Force of habit. It’s been a while since he’s been in Landucci’s, but, an occasional paint-job aside, the place has barely changed in twenty years. Good. The waitress – a smiley-faced woman in her late 60s called Hetty – has just delivered his tray with a nod and a comment about the weather, when Davie spots Laura coming in through the front door. Even from thirty feet back, he can see that she’s stressed. The way she’s all tightened up inside her skin. He raises a hand to catch her attention, but she’s already coming his way. After all, where else would he sit? She knows him well.
With her face scrubbed free of make-up and her eyes shaded with the dark rings of tiredness and tears, Laura looks younger than her sixteen years. He’s seen her dolled up at parties before, and he’s torn about what he wants her to be. She’s a young woman, yet he’s known her since she was a kid. He feels protective of her, which seems to be a role he finds himself in more often than not these days. He might need to redress the balance at some point. Was it not about time someone started to look out for him?
Laura smiles as she sits down, but it seems like an effort for her to push the sides of her mouth up into something that isn’t a frown. ‘Carrot cake. My favourite,’ she says. ‘I hope that’s for me.’ She picks up a fork and cuts off a huge chunk. It’s in her mouth before he can object. Not that he was going to.
‘Of course it’s for you. Anyway, looks like you need it. You feeling a bit better today? Do you want to talk about it?’ He hoped, secretly, that she didn’t. There were many things he was good at, but teenage relationships definitely wasn’t part of his expertise.
Laura chews the cake for what seems like longer than is necessary. She looks away, reluctant to catch his eye. The night before, she’d told him she’d done something stupid. She hadn’t said any more, but Davie already knew. Marie had told him about Laura and Mark, and it didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened. There was no chance of him asking her to elaborate. He just needed to find a way to take her mind off it.
‘It’s nothing,’ she says, eventually. ‘Not really.’
Silence falls on them again, punctuated briefly by the sounds of forks scraping on plates, cups rattling on saucers. In the background, Hetty is chopping something onto a board. Cucumber, Davie guesses. Tomatoes. Chop chop chop. He can smell something cooking in the oven. Lasagne, maybe. A warm garlicky smell that makes his stomach flip. Maybe he’ll ask for a piece to take home.
‘I thought I’d made a fool of myself,’ Laura continues at last. ‘But I’ve already realised . . . it’s not me who’s the fool.’ She looks up from her plate and grins. She has a poppy seed stuck in between her front teeth.
‘You’ve got . . .’ Davie gestures to her mouth, bares his teeth at her.
Laura slides her tongue over her teeth and makes a sucking noise. She opens her mouth again and grins like a monkey. ‘Gone?’
‘Gone,’ he says, smiling.
‘Thanks. Anyway, it’s forgotten already. Bad day. Stupid. All good now.’ She is still poking at her teeth. ‘I’ve had some ideas for the new term at the club. I think we should start thinking about doing a demo again. I’ve been looking at some of those videos on the Sankukai site. Have you seen them?’
‘Aye. Some good stuff on there. Seems to be an injection of new blood into the sport over in Japan. The new styles are becoming popular. Mixing things up a bit. You’re right – we should think about bringing in some of the elements at ours. Maybe we can arrange a demo at the harvest fair or something? Gives us time to decide on what we’re doing. Get it arranged. I’ve been letting things go a bit stale for a while. After we did the one-off self-defence class, I’d expected a few more new members, but nothing’s really happened.’
‘Things always go a bit like this in the summer. I’m blaming the weather. It’s too hot. It’s all gone tits-up since I went into Marchmont Lodge with Mark. That place is totally creepy, by the way. I think there was someone in there, skulking about. Bit heavy-footed for a ghost but Mark reckoned there were no junkies hanging about in there any more. Oh yeah, and then there was the shows, that stupid fortune teller . . . Remind me never to go there again, OK?’
He smiles at her rambling train of thought. ‘Ha . . . I went yesterday. Got coerced into going on the Big Wheel. I hated every minute of it. Then Marie disappeared and left me with the hot dogs and the lowlife.’
‘What do you mean she disappeared? Is she OK?’
‘Yeah. No. I don’t know. She ran off. She’s fine though, I think. But she’s blowing hot and cold. Starting to think it’s not worth the hassle, but I need to talk to her about something and every time I open my mouth she seems to shut me down.’
‘This is exactly what I mean,’ Laura says. ‘Relationships are just too much bloody hard work. I should’ve known, really. The fortune teller told me it was all going to shit. Then I had the displeasure of meeting one of Mark’s skanky fairground mates. Baz. No, Gaz . . .’
‘Gaz. He the one your pal Hayley’s been hanging around with?’
Laura’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘She’s not my pal. But yeah, that’s him. Greasy little shitbag. She’ll probably catch something off him. I reckon he’s dealing something too. Mark had a plastic bag stuffed in his pocket after we met up with Gaz the other night and it definitely didn’t have a goldfish in it. Bastard.’
Davie shook his head, confused. ‘Goldfish?’
‘Never mind. Anyway, Hayley’s meant to be going out with Sean Talbot. Maybe I should meet up with him so we can talk about how awful our partners are and how we’re better off without them. I quite like Sean, actually, but he’s not my type. Maybe I should change my type.’ She laughs.
‘This Gaz, though . . .’ Davie leans forward. ‘Have you got any actual evidence that he gave drugs to Mark?’
Laura drains her coffee and sets the cup back in the saucer. ‘Nope. It’s probably nothing. Could’ve been anything in that bag. I’m just pissed off with Mark. You should leave it. Sorry I said anything. I just hate the lot of them right now.’
Davie frowns. He’d hoped this was the lead that would give him an excuse to take a closer look at Gaz and the rest of the gang from the shows. Maybe not, but it’s something to think about. Laura slides along the seat and stands up. She has a bit more colour in her cheeks now. Davie is pleased. Mission accomplished. This one, at least.
‘See you later, Davie. Thanks for the cake . . . and the chat.’
‘Any time, love. Send me some links to that new karate stuff you were looking at. We’ll sort something out.’
He waits until she leaves before he goes up to the counter. ‘Can I have some of that fresh lasagne to take away please, Hetty?’
She has only just taken it out of the oven. The smell is making his stomach growl.
‘Well, of course, Sergeant Gray,’ she says. ‘I’ll stick in an extra-large slice, just for you. Tell you what, though, son, you need to get yourself a woman to be making your Sunday tea for you, you know. You’re no’ getting any younger.’
Davie leaves the café with twice as much food as he wanted, and half as much dignity.
* * *
Back at home, Davie cuts the lasagne in half, leaves the foiled half on the side and sticks the piece he wants to eat into the oven
to heat through. It’s still warm, but he wants it piping hot again. Plus, he has stuff to do before he sits down with the pile of carbohydrates that will send him into a coma for the night.
He opens his laptop. The link that Malkie sent him is still there in the browser window. He’d already read it on his phone, but he knew he needed to read it again.
Graeme Woodley. The teenage schizophrenic.
The photograph, taken in 1995, on the steps of a grey-bricked police station, shows a hollow-eyed youth being led towards a waiting van. His expression is surly, his body stooped. Hands cuffed in front of him. The article has various snippets of sensationalist words and phrases peppered throughout: Paranoid schizophrenic. Psychotic. Beast. No remorse. Dead-eyed monster.
Woodley sexually assaulted his victim with a rolling pin and beat her half to death. The details are graphic and make Davie wince. The victim had been left in a coma, from head injuries and more than likely shock. He’d used the rolling pin on her internally as well as externally. He’d been found in a local pub, sitting calmly on a bar stool. He was covered in blood. A pint of Tartan Special in front of him, barely touched. The barman had called the police, tried not to make a fuss. He said: ‘The boy smiled at me and ordered his drink. I could see from the amount of blood on him that something was very wrong, but there was something in his eyes. In the way he acted. I served him the pint, but he offered no money and I didn’t ask. He was numb. Expressionless. He didn’t even blink when I picked up the phone behind the bar and called the police. I could barely dial the number, my hands were shaking so much. He smiled at the police when they arrived too. He didn’t put up a fight. I’ve seen plenty of stuff from my years behind the bar, but I don’t think I’ve ever experienced something as chilling as this.’ Meanwhile, the victim was barely ten minutes from bleeding to death. The paramedics had saved her life, but due to the unknown injuries sustained and the massive blood loss, they’d put her into a medically induced coma so they could work out what to do. She’d had an emergency hysterectomy when it became apparent that the greatest damage had been done to her internal organs.
