by SJI Holliday
The house always felt stuffy, old. He’d barely changed it since his parents had died – both prematurely, heart attack and dementia, respectively, and one of the main reasons that he kept himself as fit and healthy as he could. Apart from the occasional sausage roll, of course.
The grandfather clock in the hall had long since stopped ticking. In fact, he couldn’t remember hearing it ticking at all since that night, all those years ago. When his parents had left him home alone and he’d decided to entertain a young woman …
Ready to sink into one of his usual melancholy late nights, he flicked on the stereo and ‘Ghost Town’ by The Specials came on. He could relate.
He’d just switched on the kettle when his phone rang, and he toyed with not answering it. But he couldn’t do that. Late-night calls were never someone calling for a chat.
He sighed, clicked the green button. ‘Gray,’ he said, his tone flat.
‘It’s me,’ replied PC Beattie. ‘You’d better get down here. There’s been another one.’
THE BOY
He is surprised to hear that the girl from the woods is still alive.
He overhears his latest foster mother talking to the girl’s mother on the tiny square of grass at the front that they call the lawn. His bedroom is at the front, which makes a nice change. It gives him a good view of the street.
All the comings and goings.
The girl’s house is directly opposite. The parents are always in and out in their little silver car.
Back and forth to the hospital.
‘She’s improving every day,’ the mother says. ‘They think she might wake up.’
So she’s a fighter, then.
He hadn’t expected that. It was the other girl who was the feisty one.
The sexy one.
Still a child, but not for long.
He’d seen something in her eyes. Something hard. Damaged.
Something like himself.
Going to the hospital is a risk.
What if she recognises him? It isn’t likely.
But still.
Is it luck or fate or just coincidence that she is there the first time he visits?
He tells the nurse at the front desk that he’s a friend from school.
Follows the blue line round endless corridors that smell of bleach and boiled cabbage and death.
Finds her standing outside the room. Face against the glass.
‘Hello,’ he says, ‘how is she?’
The girl turns to face him. Her face pink and tear-streaked. She blinks once, her face screws into a look of confusion, then it passes.
‘She’s getting better,’ she says. ‘The nurse said there are signs she might wake up. She’s been wiggling her toes. They thought it might just be spasms, you know? Like she couldn’t control it. But she’s been doing it again today. They’re just doing some tests now, then I’m allowed in … I wasn’t before, but … Sorry … who are you again?’
The boy grins. ‘I’ve just moved in across the road. I’m so glad she’s getting better. I heard all about it and I’ve been so worried …’
‘Me too. I still can’t believe what happened … I …’
Two nurses file out of the room. ‘You can go in now if you like. Talk to her. There’s a good chance that she’s able to hear you …’
The girl turns back to the boy. ‘Are you coming?’
The boy nods and follows her inside.
And so, it begins.
42
Laura was sitting on her granny’s couch with a cup of tea and a fat lip. She was glad her mum had said it was OK to take a few days off after the attack. Saved her having to lie and pretend to go to school. Davie Gray had called round in the morning, but she’d refused to get up. She’d heard her mum telling him to pop round to Bridie’s to see her later.
Laura had pulled the duvet over her head and groaned.
Why could there not be another policeman come round to question her? Why him? Not only did she feel like a fucking idiot for not being prepared, she knew he would be feeling guilty too – for not giving her a lift home.
The attacker was hanging about at the Track. He wasn’t supposed to be in the town, in that stupid little lane that she wished she’d never walked up. One thing was for certain, she wouldn’t be eating another chip roll in a hurry.
She pulled herself up into a sitting position on the worn velour couch, wincing at the pain. Her right knee was swollen to the size of a tennis ball, but the doctor had said it was just fluid and it would be OK. She picked up the mug of tea her granny had left on the small side table next to the couch.
‘Ouch, ah. Jesus.’ Her hands were grazed from the asphalt. Raw, red wounds that her mum had taken the tweezers to, to remove the grit. Every time she moved her hands they wept pus, and picking up a hot mug of tea was practically impossible.
She set the tea back down and leant back into the couch. Her hands instinctively going up to touch her face. The scraped skin felt rough, and it looked awful, but the doctor said there shouldn’t be any scarring. Her lip hurt, though. It was blown up like a balloon, blackened underneath from where her teeth had cut into it. She was lucky she hadn’t smashed them all in. Small mercies.
The thing that hurt most was her pride.
‘Stupid. Stupid,’ she muttered, punching the back of the couch with her elbows. The only body parts she had that didn’t ache.
At least her granny was leaving her alone. She might be an old gossip, but she could see that Laura was in no mood to talk. Maybe Gray would leave her alone too.
The doorbell rang, making her flinch. She sighed. ‘Speak of the devil.’
Bridie appeared in the doorway of the living room, her face full of concern. ‘Sergeant Gray is here to see you, Laura. Says he’ll be as quick as he can.’
Laura fought back the urge to groan. Best to get it over with.
Bridie shuffled off, no doubt to make more tea. Gray appeared in her place.
‘OK if I come in?’ he said. His expression was pained. He might be a professional, but Laura knew he wore his heart on his sleeve.
She nodded.
He took off his hat and sat down on the chair to her left. Matching green velour. Part of a three-piece set. The other chair was about a metre from the TV, so Bridie could watch without the volume being up at 100, which had caused the neighbours to complain in the past. Not Scott and Jo, of course – their music would drown out any TV. The ones on the other side that Bridie didn’t like – apparently because they’d said something to her once, something that Bridie had conveniently forgotten. Laura knew that wasn’t the reason, but she reckoned it was too late to start lecturing her granny about racism and bigotry at the age of eighty-one.
Gray coughed, reminding her he was there.
‘Want to tell me about it?’ The gentleness in his voice hit her hard. She felt hot tears at the corners of her eyes, itching to escape.
‘I think I got him in the face. There might be a mark. You should keep an eye out for that. Blokes with shiners. Not Kevin Donaldson, though, you can rule him out.’ She tried a laugh, but it was hollow.
‘Did you see his face? Can you describe him to me, Laura?’
‘It happened so fast. I thought I’d be ready. I thought …’ She let the tears break free and they burnt little tracks down her cheeks.
Gray leant over and handed her a tissue. ‘Laura, you did great. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You got away from him. Someone without your training might not’ve been so lucky. Just take your time and tell me what happened.’
Laura sniffed, then blew her nose into the tissue. He handed her another and she wiped her eyes.
‘He was wearing a balaclava … and there was something weird about his face underneath.’
‘Weird, how?’
‘When I punched him – I was aiming for his nose, but he moved at the last minute and it glanced off, so I only hit the side. There was this strange crunch – not like bone; it wasn’t hard enough for that
. It was like crunching plastic.’
Gray picked up a carrier bag. She hadn’t noticed him bringing it in. He stuck his hand inside. ‘Did it sound like this?’
‘Yes – that’s exactly it. What’s in the bag? Can I see?’
Gray pulled out a kids’ Halloween mask. A scary-looking black sheep. It was split across the side from where he’d squeezed it.
‘If it crunched like that, it might’ve cut his face …’
‘I hope so,’ Laura said. ‘Have you got any ideas who it is?’
‘Not yet. But don’t worry, I’ll find him. I think he might live in the town. I think he spotted you on his way home and decided to take a chance. What else can you tell me, Laura? You can help me catch this b—’
‘Bastard,’ Bridie Goldstone finished for him. ‘Sugar and milk, Sergeant?’
43
I woke to the sound of a car starting up. My muscles ached from the cramped position they’d been forced into. I blinked. The sun was pushing up from behind the roof of the house. Had I really been there all night? I licked my dry lips and tasted the remnants of puke from the day before. I’d blacked out before, but never for as long as this. Wincing at the pain, I pushed myself up off the ground. I took a few tentative steps, until I was close enough to see over the gate to the front drive.
The car was gone.
I had no idea how long he would be gone for. Could be five minutes, could be all day. I had to act fast … and I had to get something to drink. My mouth tasted like sawdust and I felt spaced out … dizzy.
I walked over to the front door.
The key turned on the first attempt, and I realised I’d been holding my breath. I had thought it might not work, that maybe the locks had been changed. But why would they? No one changes the locks when they buy a new house, do they? They assume the seller has given them all the sets of keys. It’d be a bit paranoid to assume they’d kept a set so they could come back and torment you. It made me think of that film where Julia Roberts keeps finding that someone has lined up all the tins of beans in her kitchen cupboard.
I laughed to myself. No one would think there’d be a key hidden outside the back door, would they?
I wondered where Polly McAllister was now. Wondered if she was still a hippy. Imagined her mum wrapped in a handmade patchwork quilt in a nuthouse somewhere. I’d always reckoned she was only one step from madness, and since she broke up with Polly’s dad, the stride length had halved. Claire would know. Maybe I’d ask her sometime.
After I sorted all this.
A floorboard creaked as I slipped in through the back door. I paused. Waited to absorb the sounds of the place, get my bearings.
The sound of a clock ticking, somewhere nearby. The faint hiss of traffic from the windows that backed onto the road. When I strained my ears I could hear the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen down the hall.
It felt the same as it had all those years ago. Like it was quietly waiting for something to happen.
The furniture was different. I was pretty sure that Polly’s mum would never have allowed a leather couch in there. The walls were drab. Tired. It didn’t look like he’d got round to the decorating yet. I stared up at the fancy cornices and saw the sparkly shadows of cobwebs floating in the corners.
In the corner of the sitting room was an old-fashioned bureau that I had to admit was beautiful. A dark, highly polished wood. A shiny brass key sticking out of the closed flap.
I turned the key and gently pulled it open.
Inside were those little shelves on one side, then pigeonholes on the other. In the space in the middle was a mug saying ‘Tea = MC2’, a home for a muddle of pens, pencils and a six-inch ruler.
No laptop, of course. He had that with him.
Inside each of the pigeonholes was a narrow open file. Maloney was clearly a bit of a neat freak when it came to his home office admin. Each one was labelled, typed onto little pieces of card and slotted into plastic holders. Bills. Banking. Clients. Bids. Household. Misc.
I slid out ‘Misc’ and turned it round slowly to reveal the contents.
Passport – I flipped it open. Decent photo. Three years left until it expired. I flicked through and saw stamps for places I had no desire to visit. Thailand. India. Cambodia.
A few postcards, disappointingly blank on the back. Souvenirs? One showed the ubiquitous tourist shot of the bench in front of the Taj Mahal.
I rifled through a few other bits, finding nothing of significance. I was about to give up when I pulled out a wad of paper folded up tight, stuffed in behind a little box.
Hidden.
I don’t know why, but I knew it was important. The pages were stuck tight, and I had just started to peel them apart when I froze at a familiar sound.
The crunch of tyres on gravel outside.
There was no time to think. I jammed the wad of paper into the back pocket of my jeans, then ducked down beneath the window. The engine was still running, so I risked a quick peek. I was right. It was a Volkswagen. Maloney’s car.
Carefully, but quickly, I pushed the other folders back into place and closed the lid of the bureau.
The car door opened; I heard the tinny sound of music from the radio drifting out.
I kept low, crab walked across the floor towards the back door.
Had I touched anything else? I didn’t think so.
Luckily, I’d left the door standing open and as I crept out I heard the sound of the car door banging shut, the crunch of feet on gravel.
Coming closer.
I pulled the door shut, but I didn’t risk locking it. I scuttled across to the far side of the garden and slipped in behind the overgrown camellia bush just as the side gate squeaked open.
I held my breath.
Froze.
He walked through the gate, whistling along to the tune that’d just been playing in the car. He held a pile of books in one hand, balanced against his chest. In his other hand he was swinging a Tesco’s carrier bag and I heard the familiar sound of glass on glass, bottles chinking against each other.
He laid the books on the back step and took a key out of his pocket.
Still, I couldn’t breathe. Daren’t move.
He pushed the key into the lock, turned it. It caught against the barrel inside.
Metal on metal.
‘What the … ?’ He swung round, his eyes darting back and forth around the garden.
He was going to see me. He had to.
Then he turned back towards the door, turned the handle slowly. Pushed it open.
The door made a quiet creak and I took the time to steal a breath.
‘Hello? If you’re in there, you better get out quick. I’ve got a baseball bat behind the door, you know. I’m not afraid to use it …’
As he took a step inside, I saw something shiny down by his left foot.
I flung a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp, and it only confirmed what I already knew. The bloody clasp!
He bent down and picked up my gran’s watch, then slowly stood up. His eyes surveyed the garden once more and I had to fight the urge to throw up.
Then he bent once more to pick up the books and the bag, the bottles hitting off each other again. He backed slowly into the house and the door closed behind him with a soft click.
I counted to ten slowly, sure that the door was going to open again and he was going to come out with the bat to find me.
Nothing.
I counted to ten again. Took another breath.
Slowly, I edged out from behind the bush, hugging the fence behind me. Edging slowly, carefully around until I reached the gate.
I unlatched it. Holding my breath again, waiting for the sound of the back door opening.
When I was sure he wasn’t coming back outside, I slid through the gate and ran down the path and straight across the road.
Luckily there was nothing coming or I’d have been knocked sky high.
Heart hammering in my chest, I leapt over the low wall
and down the dirt path towards the burn.
44
‘Popular today, Davie,’ Lorna said as he walked back through the doors of the station. ‘Pete Brotherstone is here to see you.’ She gestured her head towards the interview room. ‘He wanted to wait in there.’
‘Cheers, Lorna. Bring us a couple of teas, will you?’
This would save him a job. He’d been hoping to get a chance to speak to the lad for a couple of days now, but with the inspector on the case – terrified about upsetting the councillor’s reputation – it was proving to be a hard task.
Plus, according to his dad, Petey had nothing more to tell him … which was clearly not true.
Gray knew that if he had been playing it by the book, he would have been on the phone to DS Malcolm Reid by now. Called in the detectives – the ones that did all the detecting. Gray often wondered what it was he was supposed to do. Apparently, get grief for not playing it by the book.
He often wondered if he should’ve called them when he found out about Anne’s attack, but he’d only found out about it years after the fact – and Ian had begged him not to. Told him to leave it. Told him Anne wanted to leave it. Gray had felt an awful churning realisation, just for a moment, that Ian knew more than he was letting on. In the end, Gray looked into it on the fly. But with the only witness refusing to talk about it – whether it was through shame, or guilt or God knows what else – there wasn’t a lot he could do. It had changed their relationship. Put a strain on what had once been an easy friendship. Gray wished he’d called in CID anyway and left them to it … not that they could’ve done anything anyway, if she didn’t want to make a formal statement.
It wasn’t as if the CID lads were a bad lot. Especially not Malkie Reid. They’d trained together in Stirling all those years ago, Reid choosing to push himself through into the detectives as quick as he could. By rights he should’ve been a DI by now, but something kept holding him back. Gray was never sure if it was just the drink, or if there was more to it, but there were times of extended sick leave that didn’t look too good when the annual appraisals came round.
