Bad Samaritan

by Michael J Malone

  ‘Did the church let you down, Ray?’ he asks, and I’m startled by his reading of me.

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘And yet…’

  ‘It’s the quiet. I think I was drawn in by the calm. The building I can take, but I’d rather leave the organisation that built it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The blind faith thing. We don’t really know what’s out there. Nobody does, but demanding that we give in to blind faith is so fucking manipulative it does my head in. I’m pretty sure it was devised by some high heid yin, way back when, as a way to keep the peasants quiet and themselves in power. Our ignorance is bliss to the powerful. Our silence, their coin. Don’t question, play the role we give you and you’ll get in to heaven.’

  ‘What’s so wrong with wanting to get into heaven?’

  ‘Nothing. If it even exists. What if all we have is this? The here and now? Our time in these shells of bone and meat? Shouldn’t we make the most of that rather than abdicating all responsibility to a greater power in the hope that they will look after us? Make it better in the next life?’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing? Making the most of this life?’

  ‘Good question, Father. Good question.’ And I consider. If I did answer the question, it would be with a resounding no.

  23

  Jim Leonard often contemplated death, but it was rarely his own that was on his mind. That day, for some reason, he could think of little else. What would it be like? Would he experience pain? Might it be quick? Or slow? In his sleep or at the hands of one of his intended victims?

  The thought of some great nothingness didn’t scare him, because he believed in the afterlife. The nuns had performed their duties well. He was looking forward to that future. Breathing nice and slow during an endless day where he would know some form of equilibrium. Islamic Fundamentalists could keep their thousand virgins. He was looking forward to a sense of peace.

  Native Americans say there is no death, simply a change of worlds. Fine. But it’s the transition from one to the other that interested Leonard.

  He knew with the certainty of the devout that he was aiming for heaven, despite everything. God was great. All-knowing and all-forgiving. Didn’t he promise to forgive all of his lambs? Psalms 103:12 reads, As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us. Does that sounds like a vengeful God? He would see and understand that his actions were the result of a drive outside of his control, a need that was greater than any one man could harness.

  Therefore, forgiveness was a surety.

  Leonard looked at the computer screen in front of him. Concentrated on the shapes there instead of the silent notes inside his head. ‘Time4Twin’ read the banner. Who came up with this nonsense? The homepage explained this was an online support network for twins. They stressed that it didn’t matter whether the support required after the loss of a twin was from a bereavement or an argument. They even offered a willing ear for those who were tired of being only seen as one half of a pair and demanded to be recognised on their own merits.

  This was the third time he’d been on the site, hoping to get in touch with Simon Davis but landing with a different counsellor each time.

  He read in one testimonial from someone called Rhonda that she hated when she and her sister were continuously forced together by their mother, endured any number of identical outfits right up to their late teenage years and how she chafed against the limitations of being a twin. And how, with the help of her new best friends at Time4Twin, she had successfully dealt with the guilt she suffered from daring to strike out on her own.

  Rhonda signed off with, ‘Go, Time4Twin’.

  Holy Mary, Mother of Christ, thought Leonard. Some people don’t half have to work hard at earning themselves a problem. Go volunteer in a warzone, Rhonda, he thought. Work on some perspective rather than torturing yourself over nothing.

  A dialogue box came up on the screen. He was asked if he wished to talk to someone.

  ‘Yes please’, was his response.

  ‘US or UK?’

  ‘UK.’

  There was a moment while the dialogue box appeared to freeze and he wondered if his internet connection had been lost. Then, ‘We will be with you momentarily.’

  How very formal, thought Leonard with a jolt of pleasure. So many of the things he read online were overly friendly and any pretence at grammar was entirely accidental.

  ‘Hi, my name is Simon and I’m here to answer any of your questions and to help you register.’

  ‘Hello, Simon’, he typed, thinking, well, that was a slice of luck. How many Simons could be counselling on this site? ‘Very nice to meet you’, he typed. ‘My name is’ – he paused and then with a smile added – ‘Jude Michaels’. He doubted the young man would recognise the significance of this name. Few people would in this more secular age. St Jude was, of course, the saint of desperate situations. Very fitting, he thought with a smile

  ‘Welcome, Jude.’

  As Simon, his new best friend, wittered on about the benefits of Time4Twin, Leonard reflected. Yes, he was looking forward to eternal peace, but there was still so much pleasure to be had on this mortal coil before his last accepting breath.

  ‘What do you hope to gain from your sessions with me, Jude?’

  We have sessions, thought Leonard?

  ‘My twin died suddenly when I was a child,’ he typed, ‘and he’s been a dark cloud hanging over me every day since. I have never been brave enough to meet a counsellor face to face, to be honest. But I’m hoping the distance we have physically on this’ – he struggled to find the right word and settled for ‘forum’ – ‘I hope this kind of forum will encourage me to open up.’

  ‘I certainly hope so, Jude. We’ve helped many people here. At least, we like to think so.’

  ‘Before I open up to you, Simon, can I ask what experience you have yourself? I mean, I could be talking to anyone here. Apologies if I offend you.’

  ‘No, no’, replied Simon. ‘That’s a fair question. I may be the youngest counsellor here, but I’ve built up a wee bit of experience. I volunteered with the Samaritans. Went through all of the training they demand.’

  Leonard felt a charge of excitement at that last answer. This guy had a lot of promise. He was young. Driven to help. You don’t get many kids doing this kind of thing – and he must be a kid or he wouldn’t even have mentioned his age. And the use of the word “wee”. Classic Scottish understatement. With a thrill, Leonard realised that this was almost certainly the Simon he was looking for. There was a lot of promise here. Messing with this guy’s mind would be a challenge and hugely rewarding.

  His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed, ‘You’re obviously a compassionate young man, Simon, or you wouldn’t be doing this. But why specialise in helping twins? Surely that demands a particular form of expertise.’

  ‘Of course it does! I’m a twin myself!’

  Holy Mary, thought Leonard again. Young people and their propensity for exclamation marks. He responded, ‘I’m sure you guys have rules about how much you share online, and I’m sorry if I have been too intrusive with my questions. But one more, if I may.’

  ‘Sure thing. Ask away.’

  ‘Is your twin alive or dead? I mean how can you possibly understand if you’ve never gone through that kind of trauma?’

  ‘My bro is very much alive, Jude. But I have suffered loss in my life.’ Of course you have, thought Leonard, or why else would you be doing this? In his experience, those people who enter this field are also looking for some kind of help themselves. ‘In any case, we’re doing this to provide an ear. To empathise. To enable our clients and to help them move on. Anybody can listen, but it takes a special skill to listen properly, without judgement, without jumping in with advice.’

  All very textbook, thought Leonard.
>
  He typed, ‘And you can do all that on here? I’m almost afraid to suggest it, bearing in mind what I already said, but would we get the chance to meet up?’

  ‘That’s not a service we offer, Jude. Our funding doesn’t cover that.’

  ‘How about a telephone conversation? Can we do that? I’m already finding that there are limitations here.’

  ‘Let’s see how we get on here first of all, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ wrote Leonard, his pulse racing with anticipation. ‘I’m already feeling that this is going to be a great benefit to me.’

  24

  Outside the church, I stand on the pavement and watch the flow of traffic. People in cars. Each of them locked in their own world. Chasing the next gadget, the next pair of shoes, the next big thing, and it’s all so pointless I want to scream at them.

  Across the road from the church is the River Clyde, and I feel the pull of the water. Judging the flow of cars, I sprint across the road and over to the white railings at the water’s edge.

  The great River Clyde. The river that Glasgow built and which, in turn, built Glasgow. Helped it to become the second city of the British Empire. And now, I lean forward and examine the slow slide of water, it’s a sleeping giant. The water is calm, fractured reflections sit on the surface. But it is too far away for me to see my own sullen image in the water.

  I look up. Just on the other side of the river from me is Carlton Place. The address of my police-authorised counsellor. I look away quickly with the absurd notion that my looking at them will somehow attract their attention.

  I pull my phone from my pocket. Three missed calls. Two from Alessandra and one from Daryl. I click on Daryl’s details and press call. Can’t face Ale right now. She demands too much honesty.

  Daryl picks up immediately.

  ‘The Super said you were taking some time off, Ray. What’s going on?’

  ‘Ach, don’t listen to him. Talks out of his arse. What’s happening back at the ranch?’

  ‘We’ve just brought in Kevin Banks. He’s up before the beaks tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Yeah, he brought in Peters to take over the case while you were out of action.’

  DI Peters. Sees me as his professional nemesis. Which is posh speak for someone who hates my guts.

  ‘That was quick.’ I swallow my anger at myself. I’ve got no one else to blame. ‘Well, he’ll just have to take him back off the case. I’m going nowhere.’ I pause a beat. ‘Can you come pick me up?’

  ‘Sure. Where are you?’

  I look around me. Place my back against the railings to take in the wide, tall wooden doors of the church and the crucifix hanging above.

  ‘Nowhere,’ I say with a rueful laugh. Then I tell him. He snorts in response. I look over to my left and am reminded that the casino is in that direction. Thinking this would be an easy pick up point for him, I tell him to meet me there in five minutes.

  * * *

  Waiting at the corner for Daryl, my mind goes for a search of the sense in the last hour. I can recognise that everything is clear now. Rational Ray is back in control. But what the hell happened after I walked out, well, minced out of Harrison’s office?

  I remember little of how I came to be in that church.

  And what was I thinking? A church? I haven’t been in one since that time during the hunt for the Stigmata Killer. Before that it would have been just before I got chucked out of the seminary.

  A gap opens up in the clouds, and I feel a little heat from the sun. I turn my face to it and enjoy the warmth. The little things. I like being able to notice them, for a change. The traffic is a loud hum. A door opens, and I catch the scent of roasting coffee from the bagel shop behind me. A couple walk past. Judging by the looks on their faces, the world doesn’t exist outside their bubble, except to supply them with essentials.

  All of this was going on around me when I made my way to the church, yet none of it registered. What’s wrong with me? Maybe, as Harrison suggests, I do need time out? Speak to the counsellor? I look over my shoulder, across the river.

  Nah, fuck that.

  Moving forward, that’s what is required. Taking that next step is what will keep me focused. And sane. Time off work will just give me too much time to think. Too much time to dwell on the sorry mess my life is in.

  Footsteps. A deep voice.

  ‘Looking for some action, mate?’

  I turn round. This isn’t who I expect to see. I’m grabbed into a bear-hug. Take a moment to feel the security of this man’s solidity before pushing him away. Emotion chokes me for a moment. I cough. Smile. Realise I’m pleased to see him.

  ‘Wanker,’ I say in greeting to Kenny.

  ‘Good to see you too, mate.’ He’s wearing that grin.

  ‘What, has it been all of two days since I saw you last?’

  ‘And my, look how you’ve grown.’

  I pat my stomach. ‘It’s the deep-fried bagels, don’t you know.’

  ‘You deep fry bagels here?’ he asks, smiling.

  ‘Such a tourist.’ I place a hand on his shoulder. Give him a smile of thanks and look around. ‘You were just passing…’

  ‘Glasgow really is a small city, eh?’ He gives me a look as if assessing whether or not I’m in the right state of mind to hear the truth. ‘Your friends are worried about you, Ray.’

  ‘So this is some kind of American-style intervention?’ I stiffen and take a step towards him, all grunt and gristle.

  He puts a firm hand on my chest to stop my forward momentum, completely unfazed by the switch in my mood. ‘Get over yourself, McBain.’ He reaches out, pinches my right cheek and gives it wee shake while laughing, and I find myself reacting to his good humour. Only Kenny O’Neill could get away with this.

  ‘I thought Daryl…’

  ‘Alessandra took over. She has me on speed dial. Brains and beauty that one.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘So, she called. Said you needed a distraction.’ He holds his arms wide. Again with the grin. ‘And I’m it.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ I relax and decide to go with whatever scheme he and Ale have cooked up.

  ‘Not sure.’ He makes a face. ‘But I predict that copious amounts of alcohol will be involved.’

  * * *

  Next morning and I’m rueing that last whisky and ginger ale. Thankfully, Kenny is a bit of a light-weight when it comes to booze, and I’m not much better.

  In the car park at work, I breathe into my cupped hand. A sniff as I try to assess how much of last night’s drinking has made it into this morning’s breath.

  Apart from one brief flirtation with alcohol while I tried to deal with the effects of a Catholic convent upbringing, booze has never been my escape route. I want to make sure that no police eyebrows are raised while asking that question this time around.

  Satisfied that all they’re going to get if they get close enough is a minty-fresh exhalation, I exit the car and come face-to-face with Daryl Drain.

  ‘Awright, boss?’ he asks.

  ‘Getting there,’ I answer while trying to read the expression on his face. He looks silently back at me.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘In a better place today?’

  I set my jaw. He looks like he’s been storing something up since yesterday and needs to get it off his chest. I owe him, and he knows it. But my response has a more caustic edge than I was aiming for.

  ‘Brilliant, big man. Just brilliant,’ I say.

  Daryl shoves his hands deep in his pockets as if trying to keep them away from my throat.

  ‘There’s something going on in your head, and you have to sort it. If you need to keep working while you do that, great. Ale and I put our careers on the line for you before. Don’t take us for granted now. Ev
eryone else in that office would be happy to hang you out to dry. Get real and get help, for all our sakes, eh?’

  I take the scolding. Say nothing. Sometimes when you are presented with a plate of shit, you just have to eat it.

  * * *

  Hoping that the butterflies in my stomach will all start flying in the same direction, I walk into the boss’s office.

  ‘Just back from the counsellor,’ I lie.

  Harrison looks up from the file on his desk and stares. Assesses.

  ‘I managed to get an emergency meeting with my counsellor,’ I say. Substitute counsellor for Catholic priest and I’m being truthful. ‘And we’ve agreed to start a course of therapy. Once a week.’ That’s a stretch, but I’m sure the young priest won’t send me on my way. And with a start I realise my intention to return.

  Harrison sits back, clasps his hands on his lap. ‘I’m impressed, Ray. I didn’t think you would respond so positively.’ He oozes a smugness that’s so thick I wonder why it doesn’t clog his pores.

  ‘Yeah … and the thing is, the counsellor thinks it would be a mistake for me to take time off. Says it would hinder any progress. I need to keep busy.’ I leaven this statement with a smile of apology.

  ‘Right. Ah. Well.’ He thinks about his next move. ‘We had to move things on quickly.’ He leans forward on his desk. ‘We brought in Kevin Banks, and DI Peters is now in charge of the investigation.’

  I pretend I don’t know and give it an awfurfuckssake.

  ‘By all means, keep busy if that’s what your mental health professional says you should do, Ray. But I’ve moved Peters over and can’t go chopping and changing. So, you’ll just have to join the team, but report to him as chief investigation officer on this one, OK?’

  No, it’s not ok, but I don’t have too many options.

  * * *

  Peters has gathered the team around him, and they’re getting organised.

  ‘Good of you to join us, Ray,’ he says, looking up when I approach. Everyone else has a quick look, then with a degree of awkwardness, returns to face Peters. Ignoring the heat of shame that flares in me, I move closer to the group. He does me the courtesy of recapping on what has just been agreed. Less out of politeness and more out of a need to remind me what I crap job I had been doing. Fair enough. I deserve it. But he only gets one cheap shot before I launch myself at him with a cocked fist.