by Owen Mullen
Sylvia wouldn’t consider it. ‘No. I won’t beg. I’ll be all right. But it makes me sad and angry at the same time. I was the one who looked after them – all three of them – and this is the thanks I get.’
‘Things have a way of working out.’ Mackenzie heard herself talking nonsense and flushed.
Sylvia stroked Juliette’s ear. ‘Don’t worry about us. We’ll be okay. It’s just… the rejection. It hurts. Realising what a fool you’ve been, and that your whole life, everything you did, everything you imagined you’d achieved, was a lie.’
16
Sanderson wasn’t ready to go back to the city. There was no-one waiting for him in Glasgow – not that he’d have hurried home even if there was. He made a left turn into Ayr town centre, crossed the river and drove towards the shore. When he reached it, he parked on the Esplanade and watched the distant shape of the Isle of Arran through his field glasses. His mood was dark. Coming here wouldn’t help. The cloudy sky and choppy sea flecked with whitecaps reminded him of the last time he’d been on the beach: he’d been twelve or thirteen, already staging daily rebellions against his parents. They’d brought him and his brother to the Costa del Clyde three years after his father lost his job, when the redundancy money which had financed trips to Benidorm and Lanzarote was well and truly done in.
Worst holiday he’d ever had. Rained every day for a week.
The boys spent most of it in the bed and breakfast not far from the Pavilion, trying to blot out the sound of their parents quarrelling next door. Even at that age he was old enough to understand the problem: it was money. They didn’t have any.
That bloody awful seven days was the last they’d been anywhere as a family. Months later his old man hanged himself. Sanderson came home from school and discovered him behind the door, still dressed in his pyjamas, a clothes rope round his neck. The rope was new, bought especially. That fact, insignificant in itself, stayed with him, underlining the pain the man had been in, the image burned into his son’s brain. Sanderson guessed it always would: the bulging eyes, the blood on his mouth from where he’d bitten off his tongue, and his bare feet inches from the floor that would have saved him. Except, he hadn’t wanted to be saved. He’d had enough. His father wanted out. Finding him had been a horrific experience that taught Peter Sanderson the importance of hard cash. How ironic he should wash up at this beach – the place he most hated – potless.
And what did you know? It was going to fucking rain.
Doreen nodded at the sky and the stippled sea. ‘It was fun while it lasted. We’re going to have to make a run for it.’
Irene shook her head. ‘Not sure I can. I haven’t run in years.’
‘Then now’s a good time to start. Let’s go.’
Mackenzie and Sylvia headed towards the Esplanade. ‘Quick as we can. We’re lucky it stayed off as long as it has. Hurry.’
Sylvia couldn’t hurry and didn’t want to. ‘Go on without us. Me and Juliette will be all right.’
‘You mean leave you to get soaked? That’s not happening. Here, take my arm.’
‘Really, I’m okay.’
‘You’re an independent old bugger who won’t let people help you. Come on. I don’t fancy getting drenched, even if you do.’
Sylvia quickened her pace, though not by much. ‘I can only go as fast as I can go.’
‘Fine, but do your talking walking, will you?’
Caitlin joined them and tried to put her arm through Sylvia’s. ‘You’re doing well. Sand is difficult to walk on.’
Sylvia shrugged her away. ‘Don’t grab me. I hate people grabbing me.’
‘I’m not grabbing you.’ Caitlin pointed ahead. ‘The others are already on the Esplanade.’
Sylvia pushed her, accidentally knocking the bag off her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
Caitlin took her arm again. ‘Forget it. Just stop making a song and dance and walk as fast as you can.’
‘I’m a selfish old woman sometimes.’
‘No, but you’re a bloody ton weight.’
Losing had depressed him. His whole life depressed him. He’d had a wad of twenties in his inside jacket pocket, neatly folded. Close on two and a half thousand pounds. Gone. Sanderson counted what was left into his hand, hearing the dull tinkle of coin against coin rather than the reassuring rustle of notes. In amongst the silver ten pence pieces and copper twos and ones was the green rubber band that had held his stake together. It mocked him. He rolled down the window and threw it away. Of course there was more – there was always more. All he needed was a starter, the entrance money.
An image of his wife came into his mind. He cursed, conveniently forgetting he’d treated her like a piece of shit. Since she’d run out on him, all he thought about was getting her back.
The half bottle of Bell’s was unopened. He took it from the glove compartment, unscrewed the top and put it to his lips; immediately its harshness burned his throat. Alcohol wouldn’t change anything but it would lift his mood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the top back on the bottle. These days in Scotland the police were red-hot on drink driving. After the Merc fiasco, he didn’t need any more copper hassles.
Rain spattered the windscreen in fat exploding drops. Outside, people raced for shelter as if they’d been taken by surprise. Hadn’t they noticed the wind picking up and the dark sky above the Firth of Clyde? Fucking idiots. A harassed couple passed, red-faced, dragging the arms off their bewildered kids. Sanderson understood how the children felt; he’d been there.
Time to draw a line under a bastard of a day.
He switched the ignition on and lifted the field glasses for a final look at Arran, grey against a grey sea. On that doomed holiday he’d stood not far from where he was now, watching the island in the distance, wondering what it would be like to live there.
Now he knew. It would be shit.
Further up the beach, a group of women broke into a run. Two or three had been paddling and carried their shoes. Someone took a grey-haired woman’s hand who was obviously not fit to run. She clasped something to her chest, protecting it: a dog. Why not put it down, silly bitch? Bound to be in better shape than her. One of them tried to take her other arm. The ungrateful old bag shrugged the help away.
The rain hit the windscreen in a steady drumbeat. Anybody caught in it would be soaked in seconds. Sanderson stayed with the drama playing out on the beach where the younger women gently encouraged the older one; flustered, struggling to go faster, clutching her stupid mutt.
Behind the field glasses Sanderson’s eyes narrowed.
‘You’ve got to be fucking joking.’
He adjusted the viewfinder and zoomed in. She was pointing to the others, still trying to take the bad-tempered old bastard’s arm. Memories of his childhood and the failure of the first two favourites faded.
Sanderson smiled. His luck had changed.
17
Malkie slept for twelve straight untroubled hours. When he woke, he was ravenously hungry, more thirsty than he’d ever been in his life. Somewhere his grandfather snored for Scotland. Fair play to him; he deserved credit. Finding a bloodstained stranger on his doorstep in the middle of the night would’ve fazed most people. Not him. He’d turned and gone back to his room without a word. Seeing the man who’d rejected his mother in her hour of need rekindled the anger he carried inside him. He’d always intended to sort him out for how he’d treated her. And he would. The old bastard was on borrowed time.
Malkie padded barefoot to the kitchen, helped himself to a cheese sandwich, then lay on the bed replaying what he could remember of the day before – his first day of freedom, most of it a blur. Flashes rose behind his eyes: outside Barlinnie waiting for Kirsty to show; the hero’s welcome from his mates in the pub; rolling a joint in somebody’s house; and the girl with the horrible perfume he’d tried to fuck. He came out of the blackout standing over the cripple.
From then on, his memory was crystal.
The images were violent and vivid. Malkie’s twisted logic justified everything. In different ways, Kirsty and the cripple had betrayed him, so yeah, they deserved all they’d got, didn’t they? He was fine with that. Settling the score with old Billy would happen – this wasn’t the time. Malkie’s face would be on the front page of every newspaper and on every fucking telly in the country. For the moment he was safe. How long that lasted depended on the old man. Malkie closed his eyes. In minutes, he was asleep.
It was dark. Shadows from the street moved on the walls like tendrils of black smoke. Something had wakened Malkie. He got off the bed, tiptoed to the door and opened it. Yellow light from the kitchen bathed the hall – his grandfather’s gravel voice travelling through the past.
get your thinking straight
The linoleum was rolled back and the table had been pushed aside. Billy faced away from him on his knees, puffing and grunting with the effort, one hand in a hole in the floorboards. He pulled out a plastic bag, peered inside, mouthing a count, nodding his grizzled head. Satisfied, he returned it to where it had been and replaced the boards. By the time Malkie heard the scrape of the table, he was in his room. The old fucker still had money.
The drive home had been a nightmare. Mackenzie reduced speed and peered into the rain hammering the windscreen. For a long stretch near Kilmarnock, apart from one car, they were the only vehicle on the road. She slowed to let it pass; it didn’t, whoever was behind them preferred staying where they were. Understandable in the conditions. A white Passat raced by, adding spray to the deluge. The bus swerved before Mackenzie got it back under control and she swore, ‘Bloody idiot.’
The fish and chip shop and walking on the beach seemed like another life. Suddenly, Mackenzie felt tired. She rubbed her eyes and refocused. In the minibus the banter had subsided as the storm buffeted the bus, the women quietly thinking their own thoughts. Sylvia’s silence went unnoticed.
It was twenty minutes to six when Mackenzie made a right turn down the lane. The rain was behind them; the sky was clear. Her passengers roused themselves and started talking to each other. Mackenzie saw Andrew’s car parked outside. Was it tonight they were meeting and she’d messed up the dates? She pulled up at the side of the refuge, surprised by how sorry she felt at disappointing him. By the time she’d showered and changed, whatever arrangements he’d made would be ruined. Saturday night – too late to get in anywhere. But they could go for coffee. Except, no, Ayr had been his suggestion. Immediately, she knew something was wrong.
Doreen put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Can’t remember a better day. Thanks to you the big bad world isn’t as scary as I’d imagined. Sign me up for Blackpool, or wherever the next one is.’
Mackenzie was only half-listening. ‘What? Oh, you’re welcome. I enjoyed it too.’
In the side mirror, she could see Geddes in his car. Sylvia got off and headed for the house.
Caitlin said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try to talk to her again.’
‘Won’t do much good at the moment.’
‘Why?’
‘Better you hear it from her.’
She locked the bus, put the keys in her pocket and walked towards Andrew. The detective was staring straight ahead. When she opened the door he said, ‘Get in,’ his voice hoarse, as if he’d been shouting.
Mackenzie did as she was told. Lines that hadn’t been there cut into Geddes’s ashen skin, his eyes were deep in his head, and she smelled whisky on his breath. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
He gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles seemed ready to break through. Unable to come to terms with what he was about to say, he didn’t answer. Fear washed through her; her fingers dug into his arm. ‘Tell me. Please tell me.’
‘Kirsty’s dead.’
The words were like an explosion in the confined space. For a second, Mackenzie refused to believe she’d heard them. Her first reaction was denial. ‘What’re you talking about?’ She frantically grabbed his lapels. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Andrew?’
‘He killed her.’
‘He can’t have. When?’
‘Looks like in the early hours.’
‘No. No, it isn’t true.’
‘I wish it weren’t, but it is.’
‘How?’
‘She’d been beaten to death.’
Mackenzie buried her head in her hands. ‘Oh my god! Oh my god! What’ve I done?’
‘You’re not to blame, I am. If I’d kept my nose out of it, she’d be alive.’
‘No, Kirsty didn’t believe she’d be safe. I was the one who persuaded her, you said it yourself.’
Geddes didn’t argue and they sat, lost in guilt.
Mackenzie was almost afraid to ask. ‘What about the baby? What about Alison?’
‘Miraculously, she’s okay.’
‘He hadn’t hurt her?’
‘No. It was her mother he was after.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Social Services have taken her into care.’
‘And him? What about him?’
‘There’s a warrant out for his arrest. We’re scouring the city. He won’t get away.’
‘Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s too late. He’s done what she was afraid he’d do.’
Geddes gently turned Mackenzie’s face towards him. ‘I’m sorry I brought you into this. I really am. You shouldn’t have been involved.’
‘I wanted to be involved. Scotland has too many Kirstys. But I don’t understand. How did he find where she was?’
‘We’re still trying to figure that out. Best guess is she told somebody.’
‘She wouldn’t. She was too scared.’
‘Or somebody had their ear to the ground.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was being watched. Hard to think of another explanation.’
Geddes wasn’t done. ‘Boyle didn’t stop there. Took his revenge on the neighbour who made the original complaint, an old guy living on the same landing. Came across him after they discovered Kirsty.’
‘Don’t tell me Malkie–’
The detective interrupted. ‘Yeah, he did.’
Geddes kept back the details. Mackenzie didn’t need the images in her head.
She said, ‘Is the man dead?’
‘Not yet. Doctors don’t give him much of a chance. He’s not responding. Brain damaged. Terrible to say it: dying’s the best thing that could happen to him.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Somewhere in his eighties.’
‘Oh, the poor guy. Does he have a wife?’
‘He’s a widower, disabled – attacked in his wheelchair. So far they haven’t been able to trace his family – may not have any.’
Mackenzie couldn’t take it in. ‘What kind of person would do that?’
Geddes didn’t hold back. ‘Boyle’s out of control. Should be kept in a cage. And there’s more of his kind than we want to admit. Big and brave when they’re up against kids or cripples. Give me five minutes and we’ll see how brave he is. Bastard! Better hope I’m not the one who collars him.’ The policeman was breathing heavily. ‘My job’s to stop them and I failed.’
‘You didn’t fail. You cared enough to go out on a limb. When you told me about Kirsty you said nobody was pushing it, you were acting on your own. I admired that.’
Geddes gave a sour laugh. ‘You were supposed to. What I didn’t say was why I came to you.’
‘To ask me to let her stay at the refuge.’
‘Only part of it. I wanted to see you again. Kirsty’s situation gave me the excuse I was looking for.’ The policeman pinched the corners of his eyes. Mackenzie thought he was going to cry.
‘Andrew, it wasn’t just you. What about me? I told you every bed was taken. Mine wasn’t. I could’ve slept on the couch, anywhere. I didn’t and now she’s dead.’
why can’t we stay with you?
A bird landed on the roof of the house, rested for seconds, and
flew away.
‘So what happens now?’
Geddes sighed. ‘Christ knows. Boyle’s not just a thug any longer, he’s a murderer. Impossible to credit but where he’s going, some people will look up to him.’
He saw her disbelief. ‘It’s true. The world’s fucking crazy.’ The detective shook his head. ‘It was a bad scene from the beginning. That’s why I got involved. What difference have I made?’
‘So what does that say about me?’
‘You save people like Kirsty every day of the week.’
‘Except when I don’t.’
‘Makes me feel like packing it in.’
‘You can’t think like that.’
‘Can’t I? All right, convince me. What good did having me on her side do Kirsty McBride, eh?’ The DI’s eyes blazed. When he got home, Mackenzie knew the drinking would begin in earnest. ‘Don’t bother, I’ll tell you. No fucking good. No fucking good at all.’
18
Geddes hadn’t tried to stop Mackenzie when she’d opened the car door and run away. He had nothing to offer; he was hurting too much himself. At the house she’d looked back – the detective was still behind the wheel.
In the kitchen, the women chattered away, unaware of the horror story the DI had brought with him. Mackenzie envied their ignorance. Upstairs, she threw herself on the bed, burying her head in the pillows, overwhelmed with grief for a stranger she’d only met once. Except Kirsty had been more than a stranger: a lost girl, frightened and alone, who’d made the mistake of trusting her and the advice she’d given. Advice that got her killed.
It didn’t matter how Malkie Boyle discovered where she was. It needn’t have happened. She could have saved her. Her admission to Geddes was the truth. More times than Mackenzie could remember she’d given up her bed, even sleeping in the car when the couch was taken. Social Services’ willingness to step in had affected her judgement and she’d turned Kirsty away. If she hadn’t, she’d still be alive with her whole life in front of her.
