by David Mark
‘The children,’ I say, following him past my bedroom door and towards the stairs. ‘They’ll want to see you… Callum, they’ll want to see you…’
Kimmy, leading the way, looks back over her shoulder and gives a shake of her head.
‘Not now,’ says Callum, shifting his position. Mr Roe’s jacket slides down his arms and I see more of the blue-veined skin of his chest. I suddenly find myself terrified that this man is going to die, and die in my family home.
‘Callum!’ I say, raising my voice. ‘Why are you doing this? Why are you here?’
He jerks his head, telling me to follow, and I grind my teeth in frustration as I move down the stairs and into the living room. The fire has died in the hearth and the large, high-ceilinged room is bitterly cold. Kimmy flicks on a lamp and a pale yellow light illuminates the space. Callum lays Mr Roe down on the floor. Kimmy, in the process of sitting down on the sofa, tuts at him and crosses over to where he lies. She turns him onto his side, classic recovery position, and shakes her head at my husband as she shoves past him and plonks herself down on the couch.
Standing by the door I give her proper consideration. Older than I’d thought, definitely. Maybe thirty. Bad skin. Hair pulled back in a greasy ponytail to reveal a lean, sharp face: her profile hard enough to split timber. She’s got a row of studs up her left ear. She’s wearing stonewashed denim jeans and tasselled suede boots, and when her Puffa jacket falls open she reveals a belly button stud peeking out from beneath a ribbed pink-and-black polo neck. She sees me looking. Opens her arms wide.
‘I would say take a picture, but I reckon you don’t need one. Reckon I’ll stay in your mind quite a while.’
‘Kim, don’t…’ begins Callum. He’s standing over Mr Roe, looking down at him as if surveying the pattern of a newly purchased rug. He doesn’t look like himself. He’s shaved his hair right down to the scalp and he’s got a few days of stubble covering his face. When he’s home he’s always clean-shaven. Neatly turned out. He likes polo shirts and chinos. He looks wrong in his black camouflage trousers and tight-fitting bomber jacket. It seems as if the man I’ve been married to for the past twelve years is playing dress-up.
‘Callum?’ I say, again, and suppress a shiver as he turns to look at me.
‘That all you say, is it, doll?’ asks Kimmy, smiling. ‘Callum, Callum, Callum. Christ, no wonder he’s sick of your voice.’
Temper flares, despite it all. ‘What did you say to me?’
‘Oh, that was so sweet.’ Kimmy grins, mockingly. ‘A real flash of character. Go on, do it again. In fact, show me another emotion. How about shock? Or sexy. See if you can do sexy. Callum says you used to be quite the looker.’
I feel as if somebody is reaching inside me and running sharp nails over my heart. I want to smash an elbow into this hard-nosed bitch’s face, but I need answers more than I need satisfaction. I look to Callum, trying to convince myself she’s not here.
‘You said you wanted to talk. I reckon now’s the time.’
He looks at me, scratching his face, his eyes dispassionate. He’s frightening me. Pissing me off too.
‘Look, Callum, your kids are asleep upstairs. Theresa’s in the office. I don’t know what you want with Mr Roe but nobody’s going to be hurting anybody I care about, I tell you that much. You’ve stayed away, like I asked, and I don’t think you’ve suddenly turned up just so the kids can meet your new fancy piece, so just tell me what’s going on before I call the police and get shot of all of you…’
‘You won’t be calling the police,’ says Callum, shaking his head. ‘Even if you did, they’d be no help.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ I say. My temper snaps. ‘Bugger this – you can just get out. Take him with you if you like. I don’t want any part of whatever you’ve been up to. And I don’t ever want my kids being around somebody who carries a bloody Taser! Where did you even get that? And where did you meet this…’ I gesture at Kimmy, who gives me a warning look.
‘Choose your words carefully, doll.’
‘I told you weeks ago – it’s not what you think. It’s a business alliance, nothing more.’
I roll my eyes, disgusted. ‘I saw your messages! Saw the way you talk to each other. I saw a bloody photograph of you holding hands down by the water!’
He looks at Kimmy. I follow his gaze and see that she’s curling her lip. ‘I bloody well knew it,’ she mutters. ‘Go on, fucking stick him now.’
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘This is my home. Our home. I want to have something to come back to.’
‘You don’t do as I say you won’t be going anywhere. It’ll be years in Barlinnie, and every one of them will hurt.’
He glances at me and for a moment I see the man I married. There’s a sadness to him: a hurt. He’s got the beaten, hangdog look of somebody who’s tried so hard to do right that he’s doomed himself to disappointment. For a moment I want to put a hand on his face and tell him that it will be okay – that I know he’s a good guy and that whatever the problem is, we can work it out together. But there’s a dying man on my floor and a skank on my sofa and it doesn’t seem the right moment for a display of affection.
‘Can I have a drink please, Ronni?’ he asks, quietly. ‘A Scotch. Just to get the taste out of my mouth.’
‘Aye, open a bottle,’ says Kimmy, putting her feet on the coffee table. ‘I’m as dry as a nun’s gusset.’
I push my hair back from my face, trying not to tug it out by the roots. Outside I hear the gale howling through the thrashing, broken trees; hear the rain hitting the glass like pennies on a drum skin. I find myself heading to the kitchen, finding glasses, reaching into the back of the drinks cupboard for the Lagavulin. Out of habit I fill a water jug and put three tumblers on a tray; walk back through to the living room like the good little hostess and fill everybody’s glasses while fighting the urge to spit in two of them and smash the third directly against the temple of whoever looks at me next.
‘Your health,’ says Kimmy, and takes a gulp. She winces. ‘It’ll do. Prefer a voddie, but needs must.’
‘Thank you,’ says Callum, and breathes in the golden, peaty scent. He closes his eyes. Takes a sip. Then he crosses to what used to be his chair: a burgundy recliner angled to stare out through the glass doors and across the lake. He turns it back in to the room and gives me his full attention. I situate myself on the stone of the fireplace. I sip my own drink and enjoy the tingle and burn. Through the base of the glass I notice the big logs in the basket: the poker by the fire. I flick a look at Mr Roe. He’s making an ugly snoring sound, as if his throat is constricted.
‘What do you know about this man, Ronni?’ he asks, quietly.
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You don’t get to ask me questions. You’re the one who has the story to tell. For God’s sake, there was a copper here today asking me questions about a severed head! And Roe here is begging me to stay quiet about what I might or might not know so he can get the operation that will save him. And then I see he already knows you, and apparently Bishop does too, and as for the delightful Kimmy here, well I’m just none the bloody wiser, so if you ever want to have anything to do with your children you start talking!’
On the sofa, Kimmy gives a snort of laughter. ‘Christ, she’s okay when she gets het up, Budge. You were right.’
I flash angry eyes at her, then the name she has used causes my thoughts to grind together like broken cogs. ‘Budge? You haven’t been called Budge since school! This your midlife crisis is it? What’s next, a motorbike? You’ve got your younger woman, got a chance to play the hard man. Making up for lost time, are you?’
‘I need you to shut up, Ronni,’ he says, his teeth together, the glass in his hand. ‘Shut up and listen.’
‘Shut up and listen? Are you out of your bloody mind, Callum?’
‘Bored now,’ says Kimmy, in a sing-song voice. ‘Can we hurry things along? He’s not accustomed to waiting.’
‘She needs to know,’ begins Callum, giving her his attention. ‘She can’t say the wrong thing. You know that better than I do.’
‘And you think you can get her onside in the next ten minutes, do you? I’ve told you, just get her and the kids in the car and get them away from here for a few days. They can come back when it’s all wrapped up. You too, if you’ve played ball.’
Her tone changes as she talks. There’s less malice in her voice. Her accent changes. It’s as if she’s somebody else entirely.
‘He’s already said!’ hisses Callum. ‘If he doesn’t meet her, it’s all done. All off. Then nobody gets what they want. She can do this. She was a probation officer. She’s cleverer than either of us. And if you want your result you’ll listen to me. I know him – you don’t…’
I look from one to the other, squeezing the whisky glass in my hand. ‘See who?’ I ask, quietly. ‘You’re scaring me, Callum.’
He rubs his forehead. Pressed his glass to his brow. Looks at me as if his eyes are heavier than he can stand.
‘I’m not what you think I am, Ronni. I’ve made some mistakes. Got involved with the wrong people. And if I want to get out of it I have to do some more things I don’t want to do. Like deliver Mr Roe here. And prove that my wife isn’t going to spoil the party. You need to meet a man who’s going to ask you some hard questions. And every single thing depends on getting the answer right.’
‘Who?’ I ask, and it feels as though there is icy water dripping on my skin.
‘You don’t say his name. Not out loud.’
Kimmy looks at me, something like sorrow flashing in her eyes. ‘We call him “Pope”.’
‘Why?’ I ask, and it feels as though my bones are vibrating with an electrical charge.
‘Talks to God,’ she says, directly. ‘And has a hotline to the devil too.’
I look back to Callum, hoping that he’ll tell me that this is all some elaborate joke – that he’s just having an affair and that everything since is something he’s cooked up to distract me. I can see in his face that he’s not lying.
‘Theresa can stay here with the children. You need to come with us.’
‘Come with you where? Theresa’s off her head on painkillers. She needs to be in hospital! Where are we even going? And do you know what they did to her? At the castle? Do you know what they’re doing up there? Is that what you’re involved in…?’
On the floor, Mr Roe coughs, and opens his eyes, staring up at me like a corpse granted one last look at the world. Nobody else notices. He closes one eye, a lazy wink, then retreats into the very picture of unconsciousness.
‘Whatever happens, I want you to know, I did what I thought was right.’
‘They’ll carve that on your headstone,’ says Kimmy, pulling herself up. As she moves, I spy the gun in her inside pocket. It feels as though there are cold stones dropping into my guts.
‘There won’t be a headstone,’ he mutters. ‘If it goes wrong, there’ll be nothing left to bury.’
23
Four days ago
A large hotel on the banks of Loch Lomond
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
She looks him up and down. Shrugs, exposing three-quarters of an expensive breast. ‘I don’t know. Can you?’
‘Are you a costly round?’
‘Yes. But I’m worth every penny.’
‘I’ve no doubt. What is it you’re on?’
‘Gimlet.’
‘A what now?’
‘And you were doing so well.’
She’s sitting in a high-backed tartan chair, letting the glow from the open fire cast interesting patterns on her bare legs. She’s wearing a white robe, and wearing it well. She’s spent the past hour enjoying the hotel’s spa facilities. Half an hour in the pool, fifteen minutes in the sauna and then an icy dip in the plunge pool to seal her pores. She’s paid for her own accommodation: topping up the meagre allowance permitted by the NCA, and is making sure she gets her money’s worth. She hadn’t seen the point in getting dry after her dip. Just pulled on the complimentary bathrobe and padded through to the lounge. Her bag is leaning against the chair, laptop and case notes vying for space alongside towel and sodden swimming costume. The other occupants of the bar are taking it in turns to look at her: some disapproving, some with so much admiration that it stops on the verge of drool.
‘Go on, honestly, tell me what a gimlet is.’
She looks up at her suitor. He’s okay on the eyes. Quite well put together. Blue shirt, tweedy jacket with a little stag’s head lapel, neat chinos and stylish brown brogues. Thirty, perhaps. His ears stick out a little but she has forgiven worse handicaps, and she’s not averse to having something to hold on to. She glances at the clock above the fireplace. It’s a little before 5pm. She could find the time for him, if she felt the urge.
‘Depends whom you ask. It’s essentially gin and lime juice, but some cocktail waiters like to add their own little touches.’
‘And how do you like it?’
She licks her lips. Gives him a moment’s attention. ‘In my mouth.’
There’s something dispiritingly predictable about the way he reacts. He gives her a grin, all silly and boyish, and hurries off to the bar, almost tripping over one of the low tables as he goes. The barman, polishing glasses and looking suitably splendid in tweed waistcoat and purple bow tie, gives a tiny nod of his head: one professional to another, marvelling at a job well done. He’s seen it all, and the blonde in the bathrobe is easily the most confident, self-assured and icily fanciable woman he has ever seen.
She watches the fire while she waits for her suitor to return. Occasionally, she turns her gaze towards the big windows at the far end of the room. The darkening sky is smudged with a riot of pastel shades: pinks and purples and crocus-yellow adding flecks of colour to the surface of the loch and lighting up the yachts that bob in the harbour. She can see the silhouette of the seaplane, and if she were to squint she would just about see the mountains beyond.
She tuts at herself as the earworm surfaces in her brain. She’s been singing about the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond since she arrived three days ago and every time she thinks she’s killed it off with a blast of an aria it finds a way to creep back into her skull.
‘One Gimlet,’ says the man. ‘Do you mind if I…?’
‘If you what?’ she asks, feigning bemusement.
‘Sit down.’
She frowns. ‘What?’ she looks at the chair opposite. ‘Here? With me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m not sure. I mean, I’m sitting here looking for some peace.’
Little ripples of annoyance show on his face. ‘I got you a drink.’
‘Thanks. Appreciated.’
‘So can I sit down?’
‘Why do you think one thing naturally leads to the other?’
He looks genuinely baffled now, as if some infallible law has been broken. ‘Are you being shitty with me on purpose?’
She turns away from him, already bored with the game. She has very few hobbies but toying with feeble men is one of her favoured leisure pursuits. People make such assumptions about her she feels it is almost a duty to put them right. For all the things people say about her, she is not promiscuous. She uses what she’s got and her ambitions have no limit, but the idea that she would loan herself out to somebody for the cost of a gimlet strikes her as faintly insulting. If he does get to enjoy her it will be only after she has spent so much time tearing him to pieces emotionally that it will be all he can do not to weep on her shoulder. She learned such techniques from the men she has fallen for, and if she ever has a child she intends to teach them that some old adages really do hold true. Treating people mean keeps them considerably keener than one might think.
‘Do you want me to just go? It’s okay. I’ll go…’
He looks sad, suddenly, as if she’s told him he can’t come to the party. He puts the glass down on the table in front of her. As he moves past her, she raise
s her left foot and strokes it down the back of his leg. Smiles, and gives him a little wink. He isn’t sure how to react, and it delights her. As he straightens up, she shoves him backwards. He gives a feeble yelp and topples into the neighbouring chair, spilling his drink down his front. He looks up, angry and confused, and she is smiling at him, slyly: the way a praying mantis might before devouring a partner.
From the depths of her bag, a low vibrating; in the periphery of her vision, a soft blue light.
The man is forgotten. All else is forgotten. She plucks the phone from the satchel and turns her back on her companion, holding up a hand to mask her lips as she softly says “hello”.
Her face doesn’t change as she listens. She’s too practised at deceit to betray herself so cheaply. But beneath the glacial façade she feels a colossal surge of panic for her oldest and best friend. She may have once been willing to let him die, but those were different times. She’s a different person now. Not exactly better, but she serves her very worst for those more deserving.
She’s up and heading for the door without a goodbye. She needs to be in Ardnamurchan, and fast. There’s a head. A severed head, in a lobster pot…
‘I’ll be Emma Cressey. DCI. Stay tight. Don’t drink more than you have to. Keep her safe. For God’s sake, keep her safe…’
24
Inside the car the darkness presses in like gloved hands. I’m in the passenger seat, with Callum driving. In the back, Mr Roe lolls, a melting mannequin, getting closer to where Kimmy sits with each turn in the road. It’s not Callum’s car. I spotted an Audi badge as we climbed inside but if it is, it’s an old model I’m not familiar with. He wouldn’t let me wake the children. I could see it pained him to be so close to his kids and not permit himself to go to them, but he was being as strict with himself as he was with me. I roused Theresa as gently as I could. Told her she would have to keep an eye on the children if they woke. And then we were wincing into the teeth of the gale, watching cloud stir itself in great roiling Möbius strips as the three-quarter moon found its likeness in the phosphorescent silver of the loch.
