He’d never been able to part with that photograph of Lena. She had been sixteen and full of exuberance. Back when love and life still held so much promise.
*
Twelve Years Ago
That day, scantily clad, sun-starved Glaswegians throughout the city were basking in the precious rays of the late spring sun. Paul found himself wandering through Kelvingrove Park, ducking frisbees, skirting barbeques, soaking himself in the waves of celebration that were breaking all around him. Almost every spot on the itchy fresh-mown grass had been claimed. On the pathway skateboarders flew past at breakneck speed. Paul dodged them as he meandered along it.
He wound his way up a small hill and as he neared the top fleetingly he got a sense that someone was watching him. Scanning the rush of colours before him, he noticed one face suspended in motion, turned towards him. He looked away and back again. Their eyes met and he strained for recognition. Sitting on a bench, dressed in short skirt and penny-farthing earrings, denim jacket slung over her lap, she seemed to glitter and sparkle. She waved at him and he began to approach, a lopsided grin spreading across his face as it all started to come back to him.
“Lena. Little Lena. Look at you, sitting there all pretty. Long time no see.”
He hadn’t seen or heard from her since that night he’d put her in a taxi and sent her home to her mother. Two years and a lifetime. Not so little anymore, he thought, as she gave him a look that said she knew some things about the world too, now. Paul noticed her newly accentuated curves, her defined cheekbones.
“Paul. Nice to see you.”
Two overfilled bags sprawled beside her and he nodded his head towards them. “And you. Still causing trouble?”
She patted them and he shook his head in amusement.
At that moment they were interrupted by a scrawny, pixie-looking boy dressed in an oversized wool coat, despite the weather, and tatty boots.
“Do you mind if I take your picture?” he said in a deep theatrical voice that seemed impossible for his tiny frame. The pixie waved his Polaroid camera at Lena, ignoring Paul.
“Who are you, the paparazzi?” Paul sneered.
With a scornful sigh, the pixie continued speaking to Lena. “I’m a conceptual artist.” He produced a flier from his torn pocket and handed it to her. “I’m collecting material for my latest installation, entitled A Subterranean Macrocosmic Tapestry Explored. I want to make a comment about the emergence of an electronic global wasteland and the death of culture. I just saw you in that wonderful pose and thought it encapsulated all I wanted to say on the subject, and I would like to include it in my exhibition.”
“Of course,” Lena said and arranged herself provocatively, crossing her booted feet, tossing her long, dark hair and pouting.
The pixie took the picture and Paul leaned over his shoulder to have a look.
Agitatedly covering the image, he hid it from Paul’s prying eyes. “The exhibition is on Saturday.” For the first time he looked at Paul and handed him a flier. “Free champagne.” And with that he flounced off through the park with a sprightly skip.
“What a fag,” Paul said.
“You’re just jealous cos he didn’t want to take a picture of you. I personally think he had a good eye. I mean, I so obviously encapsulate the definition of macrocos-something electronic tapestries… You’re just not creative enough to see it. You’re not an artist, Paul.”
“So do you fancy a Coke or something? All this hot weather’s got me parched.”
“I’d rather a vodka. If you’re buying.”
“You’re not old enough for a vodka.”
She looked at him incredulously and rolled her eyes. “I was born looking eighteen – you should know.”
They left the park and walked a few yards to the nearest pub; a converted school, the old playground now a bustling beer garden. It was packed with students from the university. In the background, the turrets of the university buildings stood tall against the blue sky. Paul went to the bar while Lena found them a seat. When he came back she squinted up at him, the sun in her eyes.
“No straw?” she asked haughtily, ruffling her downy fringe.
He could see she was no longer the fourteen-year-old who hung on his every word. He wondered how many there’d been since.
He put the drinks down. “Get your own straw,” he said, settling into his chair, shrugging her off. He wasn’t so special to her anymore. Or at least that’s what she wanted him to think.
“You look different,” she said.
Paul smiled. “Yeah? How so?”
“I don’t know.” She sipped on her drink. “Your hair is longer. Your clothes… smarter.”
Paul looked down at his battered jeans and T-shirt. They didn’t seem so smart. “Well…” He considered. “I’ve started working.”
“A legitimate enterprise?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I’m working on it,” he joked.
His mind flitted back to the conversation he’d had a few weeks earlier. A dimly lit room: Manny Munroe sitting opposite him behind a mountainous desk, and henchmen guarding the door. From the adjacent room, the crack of pool cues striking balls had sounded like eggs being smashed, jarring his thoughts.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Manny had said in his insidious monotone.
Paul waited eagerly.
“I’m looking for someone to help out in one of my bars. I need someone I can trust. Keep an eye on things: who’s giving away free drinks to who, who’s dipping their fingers into what and when and from where. But, more importantly, who’s talking to who.”
Paul nodded. When Manny had told him he was going on the payroll, he’d expected something more interesting than working in a ratty bar. But it was a start.
“Your shift starts at eleven. It’s been arranged with the manager, John. But he doesn’t know it’s got anything to do with me. You need to make sure it stays that way. You’re just a young guy earning money like everyone else. Report back every month or so, or if anything interesting comes up. You have my number.”
Lena sniffed, bringing Paul’s attention back to the present. “I thought that was against your life philosophy or something,” she said sharply. “Working for others, and all the rest of it.”
“Well, you know…” he bluffed. “It should lead to bigger things. It’s a bar in town. The Low Road – you might know it?”
She shook her head.
“It’s really cool, kind of underground vibe going on.” Underground like a damp hole, he thought. Though she didn’t have to know that. “And I have a son now,” he announced, like an afterthought. He didn’t know why he felt embarrassed telling her.
Lena’s face went red.
“Ten months old. Jack. First birthday coming up. Same day as his old pop.” He could see himself slowly changing in her eyes. “So I need the extra money for him and stuff.”
“Congratulations,” she said, but her voice was flat.
“And what about you?” he added quickly. “Shouldn’t you be at school or something?”
Her glass paused mid-air. He could see the question annoyed her.
“No. I’m at college now.”
“Oh, right. Well, shouldn’t you be there?”
Paul watched as she sipped her drink self-consciously.
“Compassionate leave. I’m moving house today.”
Paul leaned far back in his chair, mischief in his face. “Who is the poor guy?”
His laughter nipped and her eyes narrowed.
“He’s not poor. He’s very wealthy, actually. And he’s going to be even wealthier when he qualifies and owns his own dental practice.”
Paul took a swig of his pint and stretched in the sunshine. “So where is he now?”
Her attempt to sound casual came off as defensive. “He’s in class, training to be a valuab
le, contributing member of society – something I’m sure you’re going to mock because they didn’t teach you it at the University of Hard Knocks.”
She looked at her phone nervously.
“Does he know you’re moving in?” Paul pressed, and watched her get flustered.
“Of course he does,” she spat, her face a crimson flush.
They both knew it wasn’t true. Her hand covered a small hole in her top and suddenly he saw the situation for what it really was; she’d put on a bit too much make-up, tried just a little too hard. Her expectations were written too plainly on her face, along with her desperation. He instantly regretted giving her a hard time.
“Hey,” he said and reached out a reassuring hand. “I’m only teasing.”
She pulled away.
The tension soon eased and they talked away the afternoon. She told him about college. About her mum and Jason.
“That prick came back? When?”
“A few weeks after.”
“Did he ever—”
“No.” She cut him off. “No, never again.”
She wanted to show him that things were going well for her now, and he was happy for her. No one knew more than him what it was like to be out on your own. Sitting among the students and elite of the city, he felt more acutely than ever how each and every small scrap he had was his because he’d earned it with sweat and blood. His resentment pushed him to do better.
Watching Lena now, with her pretty face, her two carrier bags and her wits her only weapons against the world, he remembered how hard it had been. The intervening two years had really toughened her up. But underneath the thinned eyebrows and sharpened features, he found it was still there, her softness, her vulnerability, though she managed to hide it well.
The hours passed and the sun began to set. Lena put on her jacket and the seats around them started to empty. Paul was debating whether or not to offer her a couch for the night when her mobile phone buzzed and she grabbed it quickly to read the message.
“Lover-boy?”
“Yeah,” she said and beamed at him. “Says he’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Paul looked at his watch.
“You don’t have to wait,” she said quickly.
“I don’t mind. Unless you’re trying to hide him?” he added slyly. “Is he one of those proper students with a briefcase and oversized head and glasses? I bet he’s a real snob and heavyweight intellectual? I hope so. Don’t leave me disappointed.”
“No.” She laughed and looked at their emptying glasses. “He’s normal.”
Twenty minutes later the dental student arrived. Lena threw her arms around him while Paul watched, assessing the pair.
“Paul, this is Graham. Graham, Paul, an old friend.”
They shook hands. Paul expected a territorial knuckle crush but there was no suspicion in his greeting. If it had been the other way about and Paul was being introduced to some guy his girlfriend had been passing the time with, it would have been different.
“Same again?” Graham said with an open-hearted gesture of friendship.
Paul knew he should be going but curiosity held him back. He took a swig of the last of his pint and nodded. Lena too. Graham disappeared off to the bar.
“Seems like a nice guy,” Paul conceded. He still thought he could take him in a fight. Graham was all beach muscles. Paul liked to think of his own wiry strength as functional.
Lena beamed again.
Graham returned and the three of them shared a drink. Paul spent the time searching for the chink in the armour: middle-class guilt, an over-exaggerated Glaswegian lilt for Paul’s benefit, an arrogant underestimation of Paul. He waited for the opportunity to expose his superiority in front of Lena. But the chance never came. What he found was a handsome, charming, self-aware young man of about his age, with no obvious faults and a clear affection for the girl. When Graham shook his hand and flashed his winning smile to reveal his dazzling row of perfect white teeth, Paul shrank back in his chair, reeling from the glare. He felt beaten in every possible way. Graham was everything he feared he would be, and more.
As the pair wandered off, arm in arm, Paul felt strangely defeated. He finished off the last of his pint and took off towards town, the purple dusk enveloping the fluffy pink clouds, a heavy darkness resting on the landscape.
Walking through the streets of Glasgow, he took in the scummy red sandstone tenements, the endless rows of seedy bars, the streams of volatile people. The roaming packs of feral children. He sensed imminent danger in every one of them. Real danger, not the kind you could bottle or sell tickets to like a bungee jump. Thriving, pulsing danger that wasn’t regulated. He felt a thrill. People paid money to feel this alive but all he had to do was walk down the street. It was intoxicating. His chest swelled. He loved this city. And one day, he told himself, he was going to run it all.
The following Saturday, sipping his flute of warm cava, Paul sauntered purposefully around the Centre for Contemporary Arts. His well-honed air of entitlement allowed him to blend into almost any crowd. He circled the exhibition, spending the proper amount of time at each display, catching snippets of conversation, ignoring the purses and wallets that were begging to be lifted, all the while surreptitiously scanning the room for Lena.
After casing the room and finding that she wasn’t there, he slowly came to a halt beside a large see-through plastic ball, about seven feet high, its floor filled with piles of raw meat. He wondered what it could mean.
Just beyond it, he saw the pixie from the park holding court over a bunch of people. The pixie was dressed in a nice suit, shirt and tie but had completed the look with unkempt hair and battered trainers, ensuring no one missed the irony of his corporate costume; the artist was still underneath. Paul bypassed him and made his way over to the exhibit behind the group. At the least he wanted to see what he’d taken her picture for.
There were lots, maybe even hundreds, of Polaroid pictures, stuck to the wall, piled on a step, spilling onto the floor. Hundreds of faces of young people, smiling, posing, pulling faces. Over the top of them was a large sign: “Lost Property: Reclaim your soul”. At one side he spied the photograph of Lena. He felt a spark of annoyance and drew his eyes over the pixie, who was still busy speaking to his guests. Paul ripped the photograph from the wall and put it in his pocket. He headed for the exit. As he did, he noticed there was now a man inside the large plastic ball, along with the meat, wearing a vest under dungarees and a welder’s mask. He was holding a sledgehammer. People began to gather round and Paul stopped to have a look too. When the crowd had grown quite large, the man inside the ball let out a scream and began pulverising the meat at his feet, splashing blood all over the walls of the ball. Paul watched as he pounded away while intermittently wailing until it was no longer possible to see the man through the splattered blood.
*
Annie was still holding the photograph in her hands.
“And this? Just some tart?” she asked, her voice wavering.
Paul remembered his words from the night before and watched as Annie continued to stare at the picture, her head bent. Her finger etched Lena’s profile and he was surprised to find her trying to stave off tears. He recalled Annie’s small, cold hand on his tattoo the night before, pressing him for details, outlining Lena’s name on his skin. And a thought, a terrible thought, began to take shape.
“Did you know her?” he asked warily.
Annie’s head snapped up, her eyes red. “You still don’t recognise me, Paul?”
His heart contracted in intense anguish as from the back of his mind he dredged up the memory of a small child, nine or ten. Red-headed, her chubby face pale against the stark black of her funeral dress. Not Annie – something longer, less pedestrian. Annabelle, Annabella? Lena’s half-sister. Her estranged half-sister. They were nothing alike, but the vaguest resemblance was the
re. In her voice, in the small movements of her face. He could see it now, but any tender impulses were suppressed beneath much stronger feelings of hatred towards his captor. He watched her cheeks flush, her face contort and Paul knew the situation was serious.
“What do you want from me?”
Tears transformed her blue eyes into green marbles. “I want the truth.”
She got up and walked out of the room, once more plunging him into darkness.
Paul fell into a fevered sleep.
The air was still. Music was playing. Lena was swaying in time. She enjoyed the slow seduction, teasing out her movements. Briefly returned to the moment, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She walked up to it and gazed expressionlessly at the reflection staring back at her. Slowly she reached for a red lipstick and began to apply it.
“Lena?”
She continued to stare at her reflection.
“Lena?”
Paul breathed deeply.
She was with him again. Her soft, taunting laugh stung like frosted ice. Her fingers raw on his cheek.
“Paul, baby, get his knuckles rapped? All those dropping the soap rumours true? What a loser.”
Her lips glistened like beads of blood. She pressed them onto his, sucking the breath from him.
Suddenly the ropes around him began to tighten, tearing at his wrists and ankles. The cord around his chest pressed deeper, deeper. He gasped for air. She began to scream. And so did the others. All of them screaming in unison. A caterwauling chorus. Their wails deafened him.
He woke with a jolt. In front of him, on the table, Annie had left the photograph. Lena was smiling up at him now. He turned his eyes away, his cheeks wet with tears.
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