by Gerard Gray
Run.
The voice in my head had sounded like my dad’s. Was it my dad?
“Please help me, dad. I’m sorry for killing the cat. I’m really sorry.”
The tractor was getting closer. Was it coming for the bulls?
“Just get me out of this, dad, and I’ll make it up to you.”
Run, came my dad’s reply. I didn’t need telling thrice. I got to my feet and started to sprint. Luckily for me my subconscious had automatically reached for the bag, the other hand already holding the shovel. The wind zipped over my bald head as my little legs sprinted through the brush and trees.
It must have been a good five minutes before I finally stopped. I listened hard, attempting to catch my breath. Nothing. Only the birds in the trees. I looked around. I didn’t have a clue where I was, but at least I had gotten away from the farmer.
Shit, I still had the cat.
Fuck it, this was beyond a joke. I looked around until my eyes fell upon a hollow tree trunk. I walked over to it and pushed it onto its side. I pulled the cat out of the bag, removed the tarpaulin and placed it under the felled tree. I then rolled the trunk back over onto the lifeless body. The cat was now completely hidden beneath the dead oak.
“That’ll do, Tiddles,” I said, patting the rotting log. “That’ll fucking do.”
Chapter 8
Things Kick Off
The moment I walked up the path, I realised that my day was about to get a whole lot worse. Sitting outside the front door was Michael’s pram. I had intended on just jumping into the house to do the toilet before darting off to Karen’s mum’s to get the baby. The soft play was out, but I could still take him to the park.
On reaching to put the keys in the lock, Karen opened the door. She nodded abruptly, about turned, and marched quickly off into the living room. She looked pissed off.
“I’m sorry, Karen.”
No reply.
“Something came up. I’ll take him to the park now.”
As I walked into the living room I saw Michael standing in front of the TV, transfixed. “Hello, gorgeous,” I said.
Michael dragged himself away from the TV just long enough to register my existence. It was a slip of a glance. He turned his head away from me and said, “Hello, dada.”
“Did you hear that?” I said, astonished. “Did you hear that Karen? He said “hello dada”.”
I turned around to find my wife scowling at me. “He’s been saying it for days. Not that you would have noticed. I asked you to do one thing, Pete. Is it so much to ask you to spend an afternoon with your son? It didn’t used to be.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll take him to the park now.”
Karen’s face dropped to the floor. She looked exhausted. “You need to talk to me, Pete. You don’t talk to me anymore.”
I was speechless.
For some reason I suddenly thought about my presentation at work. I hadn’t told her about it yet, the fact that I could lose my job over it. Should I tell her that I was worried? Was that what she wanted from me?
“I’ll take Michael to the park now.”
“We’ve already been.”
Fuck.
I sat down beside Michael. He was bobbing up and down to Hi Five, singing the last word of each line. “Clever boy,” I mumbled, clapping his soft brown hair. I lowered my head. Karen was right. I was a crap dad. What was wrong with me?
No. That’s not fair. When I’m not at work I spend every single minute of my waking day with my kids. I’m a good dad. At least I try to be.
Karen was busying herself with a duster. The silent treatment had begun. I could tell by her countenance, by the way she was putting on a display of cleaning, that she wasn’t going to talk to me for at least a week. Cleaning was one of her weapons of choice; it hammered home the fact that she did everything and I did nothing. Going to work didn’t count, and neither did doing the garden. Try looking after two kids all day – seven days a week – then you’ll know what work is. I think she thought my work was a holiday camp.
Well fuck this.
“Karen, are you OK?”
“Fine,” she replied, dusting vigorously.
Fucking hell, I hate that word.
“Look, I’m sorry, I had to do something very important this afternoon.”
Karen stopped what she was doing and stared at me. “So what was so important then?”
Shit. I hadn’t expected her to ask me that. I wasn’t going to lie to her, though. I decided to say nothing.
“Don’t bother.” And with that she walked out of the room. “Just watch the baby. Can you do that for me? I have a lot of ironing to do. And don’t you dare look at that computer. Play with him.”
“I do play with him!” I shouted back at her. “Don’t start me, Karen!”
That did it. In a flash she was gone. I’d infuriated her by shouting. I sighed, resigned to the fact that I was going to have to apologise. I should have just kept my mouth shut and said nothing.
“Karen,” I said, shouting apologetically after her. “Karen?”
“I have a lot to do.”
“I know. I’m sorry for shouting.”
I followed her up the stairs, but just before getting to the top landing my phone started to ring. I looked at the number, exasperated. It took me a couple of seconds to recognise it. Oh shit, it was the priest’s brother. I couldn’t be bothered talking to him right now, and I was just about to put it back in my pocket when I noticed Karen standing at the top of the stairs.
“Are you going to answer it?”
“It’s just that rude guy about his book.”
“Rude? Not answering your phone is rude.”
“Uch, alright, alright, I’ll answer it. Hello, Peter Murphy speaking.”
“Hello. Sorry for bothering you, it’s Steven Thomas here. I was just phoning to see if I could pop round to pick up the book.”
“Pop round?”
“Yes, I flew up from London. I’m in Glasgow City Centre.”
“Really?”
“I have your address, but I didn’t want to pop around unannounced.”
“Right.”
“Is it OK to pop round now? I could just jump in a taxi, I don’t mind.”
“A taxi?” I suddenly felt uncomfortable. “No, no, if it’s OK with you I’d rather meet you somewhere.” I was worried and confused. Something was wrong here. I couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t sound like the same guy. He was being friendly, charming even. In saying that, his brother had just been charged with three counts of murder. Sure, it was early days for the priest, but if he had already confessed to them, like the papers had said, then he must have done it, right? Perhaps serial killing ran in the family. No way was I going to let this man into my house.
“No, you’ve travelled a long way. I’ll come to you; meet you in town.”
“Look, I don’t want to put you out any more than I’ve already done. I understand that you might not want me to intrude upon your home. Is there somewhere nearby I could meet you. Money is no object; I’ll just jump in a taxi and be there in no time at all.”
I paused. This was fair enough. Where to meet him, though? Without thinking another thought my subconscious mind decided to take the decision out of my hands:
“Roland’s Café, Paisley Road West?”
“When can you be there?”
“If you just hang on a minute, I’ll ask if I can get away for half an hour.” Karen was still standing at the top of the stairs, doing her nosy. “He wants to meet me now,” I said, incredulous.
“Who does?”
I placed my hand over the mouthpiece. “The book guy. You know, the brother of the priest who murdered all those kids.” I cringed on saying this. “I’ll only be twenty minutes. He’s flown up from London to get it.”
Karen let out an exasperated puff of air. “I suppose. And while you’re at it you can get some blue milk. And you promised to pick up Depp from his sleepover this arvo, remember?”
I nodded, returning the phone to my ear. “I could meet you in say, half an hour.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll just find the book and meet you then.”
Silence. The tension from the earlier phone call was back on the line. Everything had been fine right up until the moment I had mentioned the book. Thankfully the silence didn’t last too long. “We’ll see,” he said.
What a strange thing to say. I didn’t think too much more about it. “Will you be OK finding the café?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just jump in a taxi and give him the name of the place: Roland’s Café, Paisley Road West, right?”
On hearing him say it out loud I balked. I had never visited the café in my life. Why the hell had I suggested it? I could have just as easily suggested any number of cafés, cafés I visited regularly. I didn’t even know Roland’s Café existed until yesterday. It wasn’t exactly easy to get to either. I would need to get on the…
I stopped myself in mid thought. I had just remembered why I had stumbled upon the café in the first place.
It was the last location I had seen the neds.
*
Try as I might, I couldn’t find the book anywhere. I cursed up and down the house looking for it. I looked at my watch: I only had ten minutes left to get to the café.
“Karen, have you seen that book?” Now if Karen had seen it she would have remembered. Karen’s memory was fantastic, whereas mine was shit.
“The eBay one? No. Weren’t you reading it last night?”
“I was, but I can’t remember where I put it.”
“No, I haven’t. When are you meeting him?”
“Ten minutes,” I barked.
“Well, you’re not going to make it.”
I stopped in my tracks, realising what I had just done. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get angry. I’ll phone him back and tell him that I’ll meet him later.” I quickly dialled his number, but the phone went straight to answer machine.
“Awe, shit. He’s got his phone off.” I tried again but got the same reply. “I’m going to have to find it.”
I didn’t, though. With five minutes to go I decided to meet him anyway. The guy had flown up all the way from London. The least I could do was meet him for a coffee.
*
I got to Roland’s Café ten minutes late. It was only when I entered the place that I realised that I didn’t even know what the man looked like. Roland’s Café was a bit like the Tardis out of Doctor Who: small on the outside, big on the inside. Ten or so cubicles were spread around a chip-shop stroke kebab-shop style counter. The place wasn’t that full, just about five people in all, sitting around eating fish and chips and pizzas. A couple of people were waiting to be served at the counter. I looked around to see if I could see a man, but nobody stood out.
I decided to order something while I waited. I walked up to the counter to join the queue, just as some more people entered the café. My turn came and I ordered a coke. I looked around as I paid for the drink. The place looked foreign, Iranian maybe. I took a quick drink so as not to spill it on my way to the table.
A small bell rang announcing yet another arrival to the shop. I turned around expecting to see a man, but what I saw was no man. My heart turned to stone, my entire body rigid with fear. I was now officially in deep shit.
*
He was less than three meters away from me standing beside the girl. There had been three of them in all involved in the crime. All were equally guilty in my eyes, but the blonde one had started it and had very nearly ended it. Thankfully they didn’t appear to notice me quaking in the corner of the café. I picked up a napkin and wiped my mouth and chin. I coughed a little, some coke slipping down the wrong way.
The blonde ned – let’s call him Blondy shall we – sat himself down on a chair directly beside the queue for the take away. He was wearing an ultra blue tracksuit, his hair short at the back and sides, gelled at the top into a shark’s fin. If I remember correctly they had all been wearing a similar colour of shell suit earlier that day, and they’d all had similar hair cuts. Maybe it meant they were part of a gang or something.
For a second I panicked. Would one of them recognise me? Would the girl remember my face?
Neither of them batted an eyelid in my direction. I raised my glass of coke in a bid to make myself look inconspicuous, but ended up achieving the opposite by coughing and spluttering the sticky drink all over the table.
I quickly shot the couple a glance to see if they had noticed me. It didn’t look like they had done. Blondy was slumped over his table, facing the other way, while the girl squawked away at a hundred miles an hour. I cringed at the profanity spewing forth from her mouth. It wasn’t the fact that she was swearing that offended me so much, it was more her appalling misuse of the English mother tongue: done instead of did, seen instead of saw, went instead of gone. But she was consistent, so did it matter. If she knew what she was talking about, and he knew what she was talking about, then was her grammar actually wrong? Could it simply be put down to dialect?
A young woman entered the café, breaking me out of my manic thoughts. She joined the queue. On seeing her, Blondy sat up straight and said:
“Am there.”
“Sorry?” the woman replied.
“Am there in the queue.”
The woman gave him a bemused sort of look, but said nothing. She turned around to face the shop keeper, not wanting to cause any trouble.
“Fuckin hell. Did you hear me?”
Nothing. The woman ignored him.
“Did your maw no teach ye it’s rude tae blank somedy when they’re talkin to ye?”
It was then that the shop keeper decided to intervene. “If you want served then you’ll need to stand in the queue like everybody else.”
“What the fuck did you say?”
The shop keeper was visibly shaken by this reply but he was going to stand his ground. “You’ll need to join the queue like everyone else.”
“What? What was that? Am sorry, it’s just tha… ah don’t fuckin speak packie? No understandy de lingo.”
“Right, get out,” the shop keeper said, trembling, pointing towards the door. That’s all the excuse Blondy needed. In a flash he was on his feet leaning over the counter, his face contorted in menacing anger. “A’ve got just as much right to buy yin of yer stinkin kebabs as the next fucker, mate!”
The shop keeper had taken a step back, but his arm was still pointing at the door.
“Get out before I call the police. Get out. Get out!”
Blondy stretched over the counter, hocked up a green one, and then ceremoniously, dragging up a satanic fluid from the bowls of his throat, spat in the chips the assistant had been wrapping for one of the customers.
“That’s it, I’m calling the police.” The shop keeper picked up the phone and started to dial.
“Your chips taste ay pish anyway. Ah can get a much better bag round the corner at half the fuckin price.”
“Well on you go then. And while you’re at it give them my regards.”
This seemed to infuriate the little shit even more. He was apoplectic, to the point where he had lost the ability to speak. “Get the fuck back tae… tae.. tae packie land, ya fuckin… ya fuckin Turkish!”
Turkish? Did he just say Turkish? I was confused. Either the guy was from Pakistan or he was from Turkey. Could he possibly be from both? A Pakistani Turk? He actually looked Iranian to me.
Regardless, this was one insult too far for the shopkeeper. He slammed down the phone, walked over to a window at the back of the café and shouted for help. A couple of seconds later a young guy came running through from the back.
“Now are you going to leave. Or does this have to get nasty.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? A’ll ASBO you. A’ll fuckin ASBO you right into next fuckin week!” And with that Blondy about turned to face the girl, gestured towards the door, and said: “Go get Rambo.”
On heari
ng this, the girl rushed to door of the shop and screamed at the top of her lungs: “Rambo! Rambo! Things are kickin off.”
Five seconds later, in hulked Rambo. My God, he looked about 6 foot 5 and was built like a Sherman tank. But it wasn’t muscle; this was one fat bastard. He was wearing the obligatory blue shell suit with a collection of unwholesome stains running down the front.
On seeing Rambo the shop keeper and his assistant suddenly disappeared. One minute they were standing behind the counter, the next they were gone. The bastards had run into the kitchen and locked the door behind them, leaving all of the customers to the mercy of the mighty Rambo.
Blondy set about trashing the shop. He picked up a chair and slammed it against a glass food counter. It smashed on the second blow. He then attempted to pull up the table he had been sitting at, but it was attached firmly to the ground so his efforts looked painfully comical. It was at this point that all the customers, myself included, decided to leave.
I ran across the road and turned around to catch the mighty Rambo putting his fat foot through the front window. I had to stop myself from throwing up. My heart was racing. What if they’d recognised me? I knew only too well what these kids were capable of. What if they’d recognised me?
“Peter? Peter Murphy?”
I about turned to see a man staring at me. He was standing amongst the crowd of people from the shop.
“Yes?”
“Steven Thomas.” The man held his hand out in front of him, his palm facing down forcing me to position mine upwards in order to greet him. “I took a chance that it might be you.”
I shook his hand looking him right in the eye, but my pounding heart was still concentrating on the mighty Rambo across the street.
“Are you OK?” he said.
I turned to look at the kids across the road. I caught them running down the street away from the scene of the crime. I shook my head and held my chest. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
