Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  ‘An epiphany, Stuart. Is that what you’ve had? Sounds painful.’

  ‘Dinnae take the piss, or I’ll no bother telling ye what I came here tae tell ye.’

  Davie is stopped from saying more by the arrival of Callum with two mugs of tea. He’s got a packet of digestives tucked under one arm. He lays them on the table and walks back out without a word. Davie can see his shoulders shaking. Bastard’s laughing. He should’ve got him to interview Stuart. The bloody time-waster. It’s all a big joke, but Davie has an issue with Stuart Mason. Apart from not trusting him as far as he could throw him, he thinks there’s more to him than just a daft wee wannabe burglar. No one ever got to the bottom of why he tried to strangle his dog. Obviously drugs were suspected, and the dog was fine, taken away, rehomed with people who didn’t have plans to strangle it . . . but it was a thing that made Davie uneasy. Someone who was capable of something like that could be capable of a lot of things.

  At the moment, though, he looks happy enough, dunking his biscuits into his tea and humming away to himself quite the thing, as if the two of them are out for an afternoon jolly, not sitting in an office in a police station. Davie takes a mouthful of tea. A bite of his biscuit. He’s not a dunker. Mushy biscuit floating about, ruining the tea. There is something fundamentally wrong with dunkers. It’s surely no coincidence that Stuart Mason is a dunker and he once tried to strangle a dog . . .

  ‘Right, Stuart. I’ve not got all day. What is it you wanted to tell me?’

  Stuart lays his mug down on the desk. He links his hands together. Cracks his knuckles. Davie doesn’t react. ‘You asked me, after the vet thing. Aboot why I took the bottles of alcohol. The stuff that ye cannae even attempt to drink or you’d go blind on the spot – even I ken that.’

  Davie sits up straighter. Shuffles forward in his seat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it was nicked to order, you see. Somebody requested it. Said it was urgent, and that they couldnae get it anywhere else.’

  Davie frowns. ‘You can get that stuff in any chemist, Stuart. Nothing special about it. It’s bog-standard medicinal-grade ethanol. You can probably buy it in five-litre containers. In fact, you can get it in DIY shops too.’

  ‘No’ the medicinal stuff. It’s extra sterilised, ye ken.’

  ‘And how would you know any of this?’

  ‘Customer telt me. He said it was important. Said he couldn’t buy it anywhere, and there was no time to get it online.’

  ‘Why couldn’t he buy it anywhere?’

  Stuart rolls his eyes. ‘Because it would look dodge, wouldn’t it? He’d already been buying loads of the stuff. He’d been to all the chemists in the area, gone as far as he could. Even as far as Duns and Hawick, he said.’

  ‘Hang on . . . so he’d been buying up loads of this stuff? Not just in East Lothian, further afield? What was he doing with it?’

  ‘He said it wiz a solvent but that it had to be medical grade. He was specific about that. Medical grade. I wouldnae forget that. Why do you think I went to the vet’s? I’d have just tapped the paint shop down the street if I could’ve got him the usual stuff, ken, like they use to clean paint brushes.’

  ‘So, what was he doing with it?’

  Stuart shrugs, looks away. ‘He didnae say.’

  Davie is losing patience. He bangs a hand on the desk and Stuart’s tea jumps out of the mug and sloshes down the sides.

  ‘Hey . . . Hey, boss. Take it easy. I’ll tell ye. Just wondered what was in it for me, like?’

  ‘What’s in it for you is that I don’t find some way to get your weaselly wee body locked up for a month in Saughton, that’s what’s in it for you. Bloody job centre? That’s a bloody joke, that one. Stop messing about, Stuart. Tell me what he wanted all this medicinal-grade ethanol for, and then tell me who your client is, or I swear I will find a reason to get you cuffed and back in a cell before you can finish your second biscuit.’

  ‘All right, all right. He wanted it so he could make his party drug – that thing they’re aw taking now. I dunno how he makes it. He’d hardly tell me, would he? I just know he needed that stuff and he needed it quick. Orders to fill, I reckon.’

  ‘Who’s “he”, Stuart? And, out of interest, why are you telling me all this? What exactly is in it for you?’

  Stuart sighs, crosses his arms across his chest. He shakes his head, looks at Davie as if Davie is the mad one. ‘Is it no obvious, Sergeant Gray? The wee nyaff hasn’t paid me, has he? That wee shite from the shows. Gary McKay, his name is. Everyone calls him Gaz.’

  Nice, Davie thinks. Although he already suspected that Gaz was behind all this, he didn’t have all the pieces in place.

  ‘Well, thanks, Stuart. I’m sure you know I can’t do much about you not getting paid, but how about you take the rest of that packet of biscuits with you, eh?’

  Stuart picks up the biscuits, turns the packet over in his hand as if he is inspecting the quality of a rare diamond. He tucks the biscuits into his jacket and stands up. ‘Cheers, boss. Mind, though . . . I’ve scratched your back. Maybe next time you could give me a wee tickle, eh?’ He winks.

  Davie shudders. ‘See you later, Stuart.’

  He waits until the door closes, then picks up the phone. ‘Malkie? It’s me . . .’

  23rd July 2015

  Marie, Marie, Marie,

  Listen – I’ve got a plan. Hear me out. I know you’re reading all these letters thinking, what a fucking loon, but I’m telling you. I’m fine. I’m better than fine. They’ve been having meetings about me. I think they’re going to let me out. Maybe not permanently, but I think they’re going to take me on one of the trips that they take some of them on. A white minibus pulls up outside. I can see it from my window. They take ten of them at a time. When they come back at the end of the day, they’re happy. They’ve had ice cream. Fish and chips. They take them on trips, and then after a while they’re gone. Vanished. Whoosh!

  They actually get to leave!

  I’ve got a plan though . . . I’m getting out of here, one way or another. The girl who works in the office really fancies me, you know. It was her that gave me your address. She gave me Mummy and Daddy’s, too. Next of kin. One letter each, she told me. I know what you’re thinking – why didn’t she just let me write the letters and she could’ve written the envelopes? I persuaded her. You know how persuasive I can be, don’t you, Marie?

  I let her kiss me. I could tell it was giving her a thrill. She’s always got books on her desk in there. True-crime stuff . . . all that. She told me she used to write to a prisoner on death row. She’s sick, this girl. I don’t know how she got the job.

  Lucky she did, though.

  I think she’s going to help me get out of here. She’s going to get me a phone. You get internet on phones now, you know. Did you know? It’s amazing what’s happened since I’ve been in here. I just need to bide my time. Just a little bit longer. You can wait though, can’t you, Marie?

  You’ve already waited twenty-five years.

  What’s a few more weeks?

  Are you excited? I am.

  Love,

  Graeme

  31

  It’s Wednesday morning. Marie should be excited about Anne’s party but she is numb. She’d stayed in her room all day yesterday. Pushed a chair up against the door, wedging it under the door handle. She could hear Graeme skulking about. He seemed to flip so easily from light to dark, and she’d been scared he was ready to lose it completely. She had no real idea how to deal with him. His episodes seemed to start without warning, and afterwards it was almost as if he had no idea what had just gone on. That slack, vacant expression on his face was almost as terrifying as the horrible things he said. Not to mention that bubbling undercurrent of what he might do next. Sooner or later it was bound to turn physical. He’d tried to get in, just once. Then he’d gone quiet. She heard the TV. Heard the cat, scratching at her door. Then nothing. Sometimes she thought she could hear him breathing. Imagined his face pres
sed up close to her door. His eyes blank and staring. She’d barely slept.

  She stares at herself in her dressing-table mirror. She looks like shit. Everything is falling apart. She thinks about texting Davie. But what is she going to say? Part of her wants to tell him everything. Ask for his help. But it’s too late for that. It was stupid of her to let Graeme into her flat. Ridiculous to think she could handle this herself. She’s a fool. An embarrassment. She’s made the whole thing worse for everyone. She wishes she could tell him. She wants to tell him. Everything. But she made her choice.

  She chose her brother.

  Even after all that he’s done, he still has that hold over her. That bond that she can’t seem to break. Idiot. You’re such an idiot, Marie! Disastrous clichés tumble through her mind: the wheels are already in motion, she’s created a rod for her own back, she’s made her bed . . .

  She can’t ask for help. Not now.

  The day passes in a blur. The lunchtime shift is busy. Quinn shouts at her when she drops a plate of steak pie, chips and peas, smashing it on the floor. Bill asks her if she is OK, and she says nothing. Just nods.

  She’s not OK. She needs a drink. Hasn’t got anything at home. Didn’t dare touch anything in the pub.

  She thinks about going straight to the party. Trying to block it all out. But then she remembers. Cadbury. She hasn’t been feeding the cat. It’s quite capable of sorting itself out, but she starts to worry about it being there around Graeme. Worries about what he might do. He’d never liked animals. They’d had hamsters as children, but they’d always died out of the blue when they were barely weeks old. She suspected at the time that Graeme was responsible, but like her mum and dad she’d pushed the thoughts away. Not Graeme. Not my brother.

  He loves me.

  Graeme is sitting on the couch, his face directed towards the TV. He doesn’t even flinch when she walks into the room. One of those crappy antiques programmes is on, where people flog their dead relatives’ jewellery for the price of a couple of CDs.

  ‘Hey. I’m back,’ Marie says, standing in the doorway.

  Nothing.

  ‘Graeme? Are you OK?’

  He turns around slowly, and he looks confused for a moment, as if he can’t work out who she is or what she’s doing there. ‘Hi,’ he says, eventually. Blinks. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  He’s retreated back to the placid man she met in the hallway upstairs. The dark, accusing eyes and the disapproving tone from the day before have disappeared. She wonders how long it will last. ‘Tea would be lovely,’ she says. Marie feels a strange sadness washing through her. Feels herself regressing back to her younger self. The one who gave in. The one who let Graeme do what he wanted to her. The one who wanted it as much as he did . . .

  They’d become as close as two people could be, and it had felt right. Once. Until it didn’t. Until it felt wrong. Sordid. Graeme disagreed. Graeme felt rejected. She knew that now. But what was she supposed to do? She could’ve told their parents. Should’ve. But she’d wanted it as much as he did. That word . . . that horrible word . . . incest. It made it all sound so dirty. So wrong. But it hadn’t always felt wrong. That word didn’t explain how they felt. That bond. That closeness.

  That love.

  She thought she’d done a good job of growing up, moving on – but his very presence brought her right back to the past.

  She sits down on the sofa, where Graeme has clearly slept again. The blankets are folded up at the end, but different to how she left them.

  She remembers the last time they shared a bed.

  ‘Can I get in? I’ve got us a video to watch. You’ll like it,’ he’d said. ‘It’s scary.’

  Marie pushed her nightie under her legs. She was wearing knickers underneath – something she’d taken to doing since she’d started her period. It felt weird to be naked under a nightie now, even though it was only her in her bed and it wasn’t like anyone was going to see her. Graeme hadn’t been coming into her bed for a while, and she realised she missed it. She always enjoyed the warmth of another body squeezed up next to her in the narrow bed. Touching each other. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut while he guided her hand, gently spread her legs . . .

  Things hadn’t been the same since the night they’d watched that dirty movie and Graeme had got a hard-on. Marie had felt a wave of disgust. Suddenly, things felt different. It didn’t feel right that he should be sitting next to his sister like that. The memories of what they’d been doing together since they were young slithered through her, making her flesh creep. They’d joked, but Marie had felt something strange and scary wash over her, and for a while afterwards Graeme had spent most of his time on his own. He’d started to smoke weed, usually in the shed at the bottom of the garden. She didn’t know where he got it from, didn’t ask. But when he was spaced out on it, his eyes went straight through her, and she didn’t like it at all.

  He’d pushed the video into the player under her TV then climbed into bed beside her. He wriggled around, plumping up the pillows and getting himself comfortable. The video had trailers on it for a couple of horrible-looking slasher movies and Marie knew she was going to be terrified.

  ‘What film is it?’

  ‘Carrie . . . you know, teenage girl with telekinetic powers goes on a rampage after she gets bullied for being a freak. Right up your street.’

  Marie punched him in the arm. ‘What’re you trying to say?’

  ‘That you’re a freak, Freak.’

  ‘What does that make you, then? Double Freak?’

  He threw an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her tight. Kissed her on the head. She could smell the musty smell of cannabis coming off him and felt herself pull away.

  ‘Have you been smoking?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, why? You should try it some time, little sis. You might even like it.’

  The film started. The girls in the shower room. Naked. Graeme’s hand went under the covers. She heard him groan. He moved in closer to her again and Marie tried to shift away, but there was barely any space left on her side of the bed.

  ‘Graeme, I’m pretty tired actually. Can we watch this another time?’ She tried to keep the fear from her voice, but she heard it shake. She tried to push away the images that burned inside her brain. Little hands rubbing and tickling. Exploring. Graeme put a hand on her knee, pushing her nightie up – just a little bit, but still too much. ‘Graeme . . .’ She pulled her leg away, and she went too far, slid off the edge of the bed onto the floor.

  Graeme jumped out of the bed. She could see a hard lump straining through his thin pyjama bottoms. He thrust a hand inside and pulled it out, shaking it, tugging it. Marie turned away. She was glad she was on the other side of the bed from him. Glad that he wasn’t standing right next to her like that. She turned back to face him, trying not to look at what he was doing. ‘Please, Graeme, can you just go?’

  He leered at her. ‘You didn’t used to be so shy, Marie. You used to love playing with Mr Wiggle once upon a time, didn’t you?’ He continued to touch himself.

  ‘Please . . .’ She was crying now. Curled up on the floor on the other side of the bed, terrified of what he might do next. His eyes were wild, his hand moving faster and faster until eventually he groaned. Spurted over his clenched fist, let it drip down his hand and onto her bed.

  She held her breath. Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . She closed her eyes tight. By the time she got to zero, he was gone.

  ‘Marie? Here’s your tea. Are you OK? Seemed like you were miles away . . .’

  Marie blinks. Back in the present. She takes the mug from his outstretched hand. It’s shaking slightly and she wonders if it’s because of his medication. Or because he isn’t taking his medication. Or because he’d been sharing her thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘I think we need to talk,’ she says.

  ‘What about? Have you got any biscuits? I’d like a biscuit—’

  ‘Forget the bloody b
iscuits, Graeme. You scared me yesterday. Like, really scared me.’

  ‘Why? What did I do?’ His face softens and that vulnerable little boy peers out.

  She blinks. Did she imagine it? No. He’d definitely tried to stop her from leaving. His tone had been threatening. His words hurt. ‘You told me I wasn’t allowed to leave, Graeme.’ Her voice is barely a whisper.

  He stares at her. He blinks, and then the hard, glazed look is back.

  ‘It’s your fault! If it wasn’t for you acting like a stupid little girl, everything would’ve been fine. I wouldn’t have had to hurt you. They’d have never put me away.’ He pauses, and she can see his chest heaving. His breathing has quickened. ‘I don’t think I’m safe around you, Marie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She can feel her heart beating through her chest, trying to push its way out. She needs to get away from here.

  She walks past him, through to the kitchen. Takes the carrier bag with the pills from the cupboard, stuffs it into her pocket. She glances at the knife block, the knives are all in there, lined up correctly. Small ones at the front, large ones at the back. She runs a finger across the handles. Selects the carving knife. Pulls it out, hears the metal shearing against the sides. Slides it back in. Her hand hovers over another.

  ‘What are you doing, Marie?’

  He is standing behind her. Too close. She can smell him. Sweat. Unwashed.

  ‘I’m going out, Graeme. Stay away from me.’ She turns around slowly, edges along the worktop. He is too close to her. She can smell his sour-milk breath.

  ‘Aww, Marie . . . Sweet Marie. Don’t be like that.’

  She feels the edge of the worktop digging into her back as she recoils from him. ‘Get out of my way.’

  He pushes against her, and she can feel the hardness pressing through his trousers. The hardness at her back. Panic rises in her chest, spitting and hissing and trying to choke her.

  ‘You used to like this . . .’ He pushes his face up to hers and she turns her cheek, bites back tears. She needs to be away from him, but she is scared to push him. Doesn’t want to provoke him. He will kill her one day. She is certain of it.