Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘I was wondering…’ Tentative voice. ‘It’s Mum’s birthday next month and, given we didn’t see them at Christmas, I thought it might be an idea to invite her and dad.’

  Nic’s head had shot up from the car magazine he’d been leafing through. ‘To stay over, do you mean?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be for long. Just the birthday, perhaps a day either side.’

  ‘That’s what you said last time, and they were dug in for over a week.’

  Her cheeks flamed. ‘That’s not fair. Last time was different. They were doing us a favour, if you remember.’

  ‘So they were. I’m sorry.’ Playfully, he chucked her chin.

  ‘Me, too. I shouldn’t have disturbed you while you were trying to read.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He let the magazine slip through his fingers. ‘Not that I’d have got peace for long. Not with your wee man upstairs.’

  My wee man? She was getting the blame for the baby, now. Or becoming paranoid, the thought occurred.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’ His voice broke her reverie. ‘It is Friday after all.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She smiled. ‘That would be great. And my folks, what do you think? It’s months since they’ve seen Max, and he’s shooting up. Grawin awa like a wee mushroom, one of the nursery staff said today.’

  ‘Let’s leave it for a week or so. See how the calendar’s looking.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘It won’t be too late.’ He shot a warning glance. ‘It’s not as if they have a full diary.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  He stood. ‘I’ll fetch us that beer.’

  Ros smiled to herself. So much for never asking a man for anything until you’ve fed him. Still, it had all come right, this birthday celebration, and it would come right with Nic as well. Once he was on top of the job. Once Max was that wee bit older. Once she wasn’t so tired.

  She gazed fondly across at her mum and dad. They were so comfortable in their own skins, so at ease with one another. A warm glow engulfed her. Talk about role models!

  ‘Let me top you up.’ Nic was in expansive mood. He circled the table, poured an inch of wine into each of their glasses, filled his own to the brim.

  Ros caught her dad’s eye. Winced. Why did her husband have to behave like such a dick? It’s not as if he wasn’t brought up to have good manners. On that first visit to her prospective in-laws – their only visit, now she came to think on it – they’d gone out for a meal one evening. But other than that…

  A fleeting thought crossed her mind. She’d never observed Nic’s family sit down to a meal together. From what she’d gathered, his parents seemed to follow their own pursuits. Unlike her own, who were a picture of togetherness. The very thought brought a smile to her lips. It dropped when she remembered how her own parents had reacted to Nic. They hadn’t taken to him, either of them. Not that anything was said, but Ros knew. She’d hoped, over time, they’d warm to him. After all, she consoled herself, it wasn’t as if he constantly behaved with such ill grace.

  She looked across the table. Nic’s glass was already half empty. Her heart sank. She hoped he didn’t push for opening the second bottle. If his mood were to change… She knew all too well what that could mean. Her dad’s head was bowed, her mum patently enjoying the food in front of her. Such a treat to have something set down to you, wasn’t that what she always said? Inwardly, she sighed. If they only lived closer, she’d have help with the baby. Someone to confide in, at least, instead of letting her anxieties get out of hand.

  Ros took another sip of her wine, happy that – despite the undercurrents in the room – her mum, at least, seemed blissfully unaware.

  Craigmyle

  ‘I miss them so much,’ George’s former partner in the police, Jimmy Craigmyle, sobbed. ‘It’s like someone cut off my right arm.’

  ‘There.’ Maggie grasped hold of said arm in a fruitless attempt at comfort. ‘There.’ Her New Year’s resolution had been to believe – both in herself and the worthiness of her cause. To that end, although she’d never entirely trusted Craigmyle, she’d set up an early meeting.

  They were back in the Hollywood Cafe in Holburn Street. It hadn’t improved since their last meeting. If anything, the red leatherette booths were tattier, the Formica tables grimier, the ancient Italian waitress more decrepit than before.

  ‘It’ll all work out, Jimmy, I’m sure of it.’ Maggie said with forced confidence.

  He shook himself free. ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’ Drool slobbered down his chin and onto his crumpled shirt front. ‘Living on my own. Eating on my own. Going to bed on my own…’

  Yes, I bloody do! Maggie bit back on the bile that surged in her throat. This man didn’t have sole ownership of loss. And he was alive, wasn’t he, with his future in his own hands? Unlike her George, who’d never again face her across a table or lie with her through the night.

  ‘And all the while,’ Craigmyle ran on, ‘knowing my kids are growing, changing. If this stand-off goes on much longer, they’ll have forgotten what I bloody look like.’ He snatched a pink paper napkin from a chrome stand on the table and noisily blew his nose.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Maggie soothed. ‘It’s only been a few months. And the children are young yet. There’s time.’ Not like her own two, she thought with a sharp twinge of regret. Day by day, Maggie could feel them slipping away.

  ‘But that’s just it,’ Craigmyle sniffed. ‘We’re into another year.’

  ‘I know you’ve got your own agenda,’ Maggie conceded. ‘Nailing James Gilruth.’

  ‘And I reckoned I was making progress – real progress – in flushing out one of Gilruth’s money-laundering operations. Now, after all these months, I’ve had to duck my head under the parapet again. And as if that isn’t bad enough, my wife’s digging her heels in. Christ.’ He balled up the damp napkin and worked it between cupped hands. ‘It feels like I’m back to square one. Worse. Next thing she’ll have some other bastard in my bed and divorce papers through my letterbox.’

  ‘Vera’s not like that,’ Maggie retorted, ‘and you know it. Hasn’t she stood by you, Jimmy Craigmyle, through…?’ Her words tailed off as she re-lived the trial, the false accusations, the fall-out that had ended in her own husband’s disgrace and untimely death.

  Enough! She pulled herself together. ‘We both have regrets, but it’s time to put them behind us, look to the future. Yours,’ there was a catch in her voice, ‘and mine. You’re doing great.’ She injected false enthusiasm into her voice. ‘You’re dug in there now: the club, the management, Gilruth’s empire by extension…’

  ‘Bloody long extension, if you ask me. There’s been damn all activity in that back room since the Fatboy business, and he’s been spirited away God knows where.’

  ‘Fair enough. But that last raid has put down a marker. And Fatboy turning out to be Gilruth Junior has put James under the spotlight. Trust me, Jimmy, we’ll achieve our objectives – yours and mine. It’s only a matter of time.’

  He stuffed the shredded napkin into a trouser pocket. ‘Do you have anything in mind?’

  She took a breath, her expression serious all of a sudden. ‘I’ve had this plan. Right from the start when Wilma was telling me how we could be private investigators.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Doubtful look.

  ‘It’s not rocket science, Jimmy,’ she retorted, riled. ‘If you can run a home, you can run a business.’

  Sheepish grin. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘It’s a matter of logistics. Building blocks. Bit like Lego, really – if you get the base right, the rest will fit.’

  He scratched his chin. ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘We know that George’s drugs case fell apart for two reasons. Two principal reasons. Bobby Brannigan’s perjured evidence and the interview room balls-up. So I’ve set three clear objectives: to
get Brannigan to admit to perjury. To verify who turned off that tape.’

  ‘Three objectives, you said.’

  ‘Yes. Once I’ve achieved the first two, I have to persuade the fifth floor.’

  ‘Peezers,’ he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘Well,’ Maggie insisted, ‘I’m almost there with the first two. I’ve got Brannigan’s admission on tape.’

  ‘A tape that’s inadmissible in court.’

  She squared her shoulders. ‘I can build on that. Second, I’ve got you willing to hold your hands up to the tape.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He qualified. ‘When the time is right. How about the powers-that-be, though?’

  ‘They weren’t against it, not in principle, when Allan Chisolm took it upstairs. My worry, now, is timing. If I can’t pull this together soon, they might lose interest. You know how it is in Queen Street, policy blows with the wind.’

  ‘Aye,’ he sneered. ‘Do I not?’

  ‘We know the end game, Jimmy: put the record straight, for George’s sake, and yours. I can’t bring George back.’ Her voice faltered. ‘But I can restore his good name.’ She composed herself. ‘I will clear his name, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Craigmyle shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘We just have to keep the end game in sight, Jimmy. Chip away. And then…’ She broke off, uncertain.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Who knows,’ she added lamely.

  ‘But that’s just it,’ her companion came right back. ‘If this. Maybe that. There are too many imponderables, Maggie. When it comes to the crunch, we don’t have enough.’

  ‘That’s not true. Well,’ she conceded, ‘it’s partly true. ‘But I’ve got Chisolm onside, and if I can put more pressure on Brannigan…’

  Craigmyle smirked. ‘You and your pal, Big Wilma.’

  ‘Don’t call her that.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Bashful look. ‘Not to her face, anyhow.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ Maggie felt an uncomfortable stirring in the pit of her stomach. Where she viewed the agency as a means to an end, Wilma held a glamourised view of the PI business. Her antics were an ongoing worry. And those were just the ones Maggie knew about. She’d never got the full story of how Bobby Brannigan’s confession had been extracted, nor had she yet encountered Wilma’s two sons, Wayne and Kevin, who’d played a pivotal role. ‘Anyhow,’ she continued, ‘if we pull together we’re bound to get there in the end.’

  ‘Wish I had your confidence,’ Craigmyle retorted sourly.

  That was a joke. Although she’d come a long road since the day she’d argued her corner with George about going back to work, Maggie was still plagued by self-doubt.

  String of Pearls

  His legs are splayed. She kneels between them, both hands circling his cock. Only the tip is visible. It glistens fuchsia in the glow from the bedside lamp.

  Her eyes stray to the lampshade. It looks dated. She decides a change would lift the room.

  Don’t let your mind wander, she tells herself. If you do this right it will be over soon.

  She feels his member engorge.

  Sits back on her heels.

  Concentrate! She lets her eyes droop shut, works to maintain a steady rhythm.

  He’s panting, now, hips arcing off the mattress.

  Not too fast or he’ll come before he wants to.

  She doesn’t want to contemplate the repercussions from that. Tries to slow down, ease off.

  Her left calf is starting to tingle. Not the best time to get pins and needles. She shifts position, leans forward again.

  Suddenly, his cock spasms.

  Her eyes open in alarm as an arc of sperm spits hot gobbets onto her chest. Dammit! She catches her breath. He won’t be best pleased. Likes to finish in her mouth.

  He lifts his head from the pillow.

  She waits for what’s coming.

  Then, ‘String of pearls!’ he exclaims, a gleeful grin on his face.

  ‘Wha-a…?’ Confused look.

  ‘That’s what it’s called when, you know…’

  News to her. She squints downwards. Gobs of semen draw an untidy necklace on her breast.

  Yuk! Her stomach heaves. She reaches for a tissue.

  ‘Don’t.’ He stays her hand. ‘Suits you.’

  She pulls a face, turns her head away.

  He laughs. ‘You’re such a prude.’

  She doesn’t respond.

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’

  She turns back. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You should count yourself lucky.’

  ‘For this?’ She tries to make light of it, though the viscous mess sits heavy on her skin.

  He puffs out his chest. ‘For a husband with imagination when it comes to lovemaking.’

  ‘Is that what you’d call it?’ Teasing voice. God, he can be such a pompous bastard at times. Still, he’s right, she supposes. She should give him credit for trying to gee up their lovemaking, moribund this past while.

  ‘Now, if you’re done…’

  He frowns. ‘Don’t you want me to…?’

  She feels bad, then. He’s only thinking of her.

  ‘No.’ She smiles an apology. ‘Too tired.’

  Sighs. ‘Oh, well, if you’re sure. Let me look at you, though. Just for a moment.’ He traces a finger round her throat.

  She kneels there, rigid. Feels his spunk spread sideways, tepid now. Shudders as she catches the sour whiff of it.

  ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ she says.

  Something Needs to Change

  Wilma’s key rasped as it turned in the front door. Shite! She’d been that careful: cutting the car engine before she slid into the drive, leaving the driver’s door a fraction ajar. No danger – not in Mannofield – of some toe-rag hot-wiring it.

  In the pocket-sized porch she kicked off her shoes. Ian was an early bedder. She crept into the hall. For a moment she stood, swithering. Her undignified exit from the Bide-a-Wee had given her a thirst. It would only take ten minutes to sneak a beer from the fridge, have a sittie-doon in one of the conservatory’s comfy chairs. Mebbe even, if she caught her second wind, put in an hour on the computer.

  She was heading for the kitchen when a noise made her start. She froze. It came from behind. Could someone have followed her? No way. She wasn’t so bloody tired she wouldn’t have spotted a tail. Plus, she was stone cold sober. Wilma ran her tongue around a dry and fetid mouth. Now she stopped to think on it she was gasping.

  It came again. From the direction of the lounge, she was pretty sure. Gingerly, she pushed the door open with one stockinged foot. In the dim sodium light from the street-lamp outside, she could make out a body.

  Ian lay on the leather sofa, fully dressed, knees drawn up. One arm drooped to the carpet, where an empty mug lay on its side.

  Wilma moved to stand over him.

  ‘Ian?’ She bent to the reclining form. ‘Pet?’ Gently, she shook him by the shoulder.

  ‘Wha-at?’ He started, straightening his legs.

  ‘Don’t tell me you dropped off watching telly again,’ Wilma teased.

  Ian sat up. ‘What time is it?’ He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Gone midnight,’ she answered. ‘Away to your bed. The alarm goes off at six.’

  His jaw set. ‘Never you mind the alarm. What time do you call this to come swanning in?’

  Wilma squared up. ‘Don’t you use that tone of voice wi me.’

  ‘I’ll use whatever tone I want. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Working where?’

  ‘Bucksburn, if you must know.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Following up a fraud claim,’ she dissembled.

  ‘Till midnight?’


  ‘Fella was in a pub.’

  ‘What pub?’

  Wilma’s mind worked at the speed of light. The Bide-a-Wee was known throughout Grampian as a strippers haunt.

  She dropped to her knees. ‘You’re nippy tonight.’ Cosying up. ‘Hiv ye no got yer beauty sleep?’ Her hand strayed to his crotch. ‘Or…’ Stroking. ‘Yer mebbe jist horny.’

  ‘Don’t you “horny” me.’ Ian batted her hand away. ‘There’s no wife of mine is going to be out till all hours cavorting God knows where with…’

  ‘Now we’re getting to it.’ Wilma sat back on her heels. ‘I knew this place was too effing precious for the likes of me.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘But nobody told me there was a fucking curfew.’

  Ian stood to face her. ‘Don’t get clever with me.’

  ‘Clever, now, is it? One minute you’re telling me how smart I am, Ian Harcus, the next you’re complaining.’

  ‘With good reason.’

  ‘Jist because I come in late one night?’

  He brushed a weary hand across his brow. ‘It’s not one night, Wilma, it’s dozens of nights. If you’re not out on the ran-dan you’re sitting up at that computer.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I never expected this…business of yours to take over your life.’

  ‘And I never expected, when I married you, that Mannofield would be so effin…’ She struggled for the word. ‘Suffocating.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing.’ Ian turned on his heel and made for the door. ‘There’s something needs to change.’

  And Pigs Might Fly

  ‘There’s not a lot here.’ Maggie frowned as she scanned the sheet of blue vellum Sheena Struthers had pulled from her handbag.

  Sheena laid a hand on her arm. ‘I know it doesn’t look much on paper, but if you’ll just let me explain.’

  They were back in Valerie’s. This is getting to be a habit, Maggie thought. A bad habit.

  You’ll be on your own, Wilma’s words rang in her ears. She pushed them to the back of her mind. Her instincts were sound. Wilma was wrong.