Lasting Scars

by Lenny Brando

Jo raised an eyebrow. “Keep going...”

  “All right.” Ian grabbed her around the waist. “I love you.” Then he kissed her.

  37

  Cole spent the evening in the Slug and Lettuce, a pub within walking distance of Alice’s house. Around 9pm, hunger got the better of him, and as he had no specific time frame in mind, he ordered scampi and chips from the bar.

  While he ate the greasy food at his table, he tapped on his phone and searched for the last tube time from Notting Hill Gate to Bethnal Green. It took several frustrating minutes to navigate to the correct information on the website, where he saw it left at 00:21. According to his map app, he was 15 minutes from Notting Hill Gate tube station by foot, which meant he’d need to leave the area by midnight at the latest, unless he got the night bus. But that was a pain in the ass. He’d have to change buses and it took for ever. No. It would be the tube.

  He squeezed more ketchup onto his plate and dunked a large chip into it. The chip sagged in his fingers as he brought it to his mouth. When he finished the food, he pushed the plate away and wiped his hands on his jeans. He used the napkin to clean away grease smudges from the phone’s screen, then opened Twitter.

  Cole grinned as he read the tweets directed at Alice and added one of his own.

  Gonna slut choke #guiltybitch #alicemadsen and RAPE her til she cums #champagneterrorist

  He sat back and admired the tweet. The more he thought about it, the more the notion appealed to him. What would it be like? Did he have the bottle? After what happened to Daz, she deserved it, no matter what the police said. Cole had seen her. He remained undecided as to what to do to her, and as he lifted his glass, he saw his pint was almost finished, which got him wondering how many he’d drank. It must have been a few as he felt elated, yet he had room for more.

  He brought his plate and empty glass to the bar and kept an eye on the phone on his table while he waited for another lager. Back at the table he saw someone had replied to his tweet. He scratched his crotch as he read the message of support. Yes, he thought, TV Girl Alice deserves it. He spent several minutes thinking about how he should respond before he typed. Then he figured it didn't matter, as anything typed was fair game, although the bit about ‘up the arris’ wasn’t true Cole. It wasn’t his thing, but it might get inside her, make her even more fearful.

  The screen flashed and he glanced down. He sat up straight as he read. It was her. Alice Madsen had sent him a message. Direct. This was unexpected, even if it was what he wanted. He stroked his chin while he tried to figure it out. Okay. This could be fun. He read the tweet again.

  It takes a real man to threaten an innocent girl, no? Keyboard loser.

  He drank more while he ran through various responses in his head. Nothing suitable came to mind, and he considered retweeting her reply into the public domain. But there was something about her reply he didn't like. The passive aggressive tone and the insinuation he wasn’t a real man. A keyboard loser rather than a keyboard warrior. What did she mean by that? That his tweets weren’t threatening enough?

  He had thought about her earlier when he stood outside her house and first had the idea of confronting her. Now the beer he’d drank encouraged him. The notion sent a shiver through Cole, and he put it down to excitement rather than fear. Bottle? Of course he had it. It would be good to spy on her. Very good. But first, he’d reply to the message.

  He tapped on her message, but when he went to type a response, he saw the info bar at the bottom of the screen read ‘You can longer send Direct Messages to this person’ followed by a link titled ‘learn more’. Several angry taps later, he realised Alice had either deactivated her account or changed her privacy settings. She must have done it after sending the message to him. The coward. He gave in to the urge to shout at her, and he thumbed out a tweet:

  #terrorist #alicemadsen ur a BITCH and I’m gonna RAPE ur slutty hole until BEG for more!!! #guiltybitch #lockherup

  The next five pints fuelled Cole’s anger and he lost all sense of time as he planned his next move. He searched for information on the South Kensington terror attack and the terrorist. There was plenty about Samir Hassan, a refugee from some Arab shit hole in the Middle East, who got asylum in Denmark and then came to London. In between cigarette breaks, he discovered Hassan and Alice were from Copenhagen, and that they worked together on a TV production. No wonder the two of them spoke last Friday Cole thought. They must have planned the attack together.

  Like the TV earlier, several sites reported the police kept an open mind, and investigations were ongoing. That all the media outlets now reported either pending investigation or ongoing investigation convinced Cole the anti-terrorist police were still investigating Alice but didn't have the evidence they needed to charge her. It seemed her boyfriend was a nobody. Cole found it strange when he felt a flicker of jealousy as he read about Alice’s live in boyfriend, but he ignored it.

  Cole knocked a beer mat against the table, beating a slow rhythm. He twirled the mat in his fingers, and it fell to the floor. Rather than stoop to retrieve it, he picked up another from the table and twirled that one too. Soon it too, fell to the ground, and this time he bent to collect it without looking. His fingers closed on a bookie’s pen, which he picked up along with the mats. The alcohol coursed through him, and his thoughts stewed in growing frustration. He thought of the tweets about Alice. Some were better than others, they showed imagination and menace. A good combination. He doodled as he thought, and filled a beer mat with hash tags from the tweets

  He liked the fuck off back to Mecca one. It was short, to the point, and covered a lot of bases. Alice Madsen wasn't the only one who should fuck off to Mecca. She could take the rest of them with her and all. He took another beer mat and scrawled ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’ on it. Then he raised his glass in a toast to the messages on the beer mats.

  Bored with the beer mats, he scrolled through phone photos of Daz and posted one on his FaceBook page with the comment My brother Daz lies in hospital because of the terrorists Alice Madsen and Samir Hassan. The police let her go even though she is GUILTY!!! Pray for Daz.

  To hell with the tube, he thought. The night bus would do. Paying a visit to Alice Madsen’s house would be worth the journey home.

  When he heard the bell for last orders, he figured he was well plastered, but another wouldn't hurt. He’d leave the pub soon after closing and stroll to Portobello Close. He paid for another lager and went out the back for a smoke. Something niggled at him inside, and he sucked hard on the cigarette, inhaling a deep lungful that caused him to break out in a fit of coughing. He noticed his throat was sore, and he threw away the butt in disgust.

  The few remaining customers looked up when he let the door slam shut behind him. One bloke looked too long, and Cole scowled back at him. “Yes, mate?” But the bloke turned away and went back to his beer.

  Cole was only halfway through his beer when the barman rang the bell again. “Come on now, folks, please. Finish up. It’s well after midnight. Finish up.”

  The barman came over and collected the glasses from Cole’s table. The barman reached to take the beer mats, but Cole stopped him. “All right if I keep these?”

  The barman winked. “You got the number of a tasty bird on them?”

  Cole grinned. “Yeah. Reckon I do and all.”

  When the barman wandered off, Cole pocketed the beer mats, downed the last of his beer and picked up his phone. Outside the pub, Cole lit another cigarette. As he made his way along the street, he pulled on his baseball cap, but he staggered a little, and he had to steady himself against a wall.

  Around 1:00AM, Cole walked along Portobello Close towards Alice Madsen’s house. He stepped into a shadowed area and looked around. There were no pedestrians and no cars on the move. No lights showed in Alice’s house, and he presumed she was asleep with her nobody boyfriend.

  Footsteps approached, and he took out his phone and pretended to use it. A guy saw him and crossed the road to avoid
an encounter. Cole waited until the guy had hurried away and the footsteps fell to silence. When the street was clear, Cole crossed the road and opened the front gate to Alice’s house. He stepped to the front door, pushed open the letterbox, unzipped his fly and pissed into her hall. Then he reached into his pocket, took out the beer mat on which he had written ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’, and he threw it through the letterbox.

  Back on the street, he studied the house from across the road, and he knew he would have to find a way to break in. He needed to know more about her, to watch her, to taunt her, and perhaps even more than that. The estate agent’s board gave him another idea, and he scribbled down the phone number on the corner of the other beer mat. He was about to leave when he noticed a brick on the ground nearby.

  He looked up and down the street several times. Nobody. He searched for lights in windows and curtains moving. Nothing. After a final look about, he fixed his gaze on the ground floor window of Alice’s house and ran to it. He hurled the brick with all his might through the window. The loud crash and the shrill wail of the alarm took Cole by surprise. He legged it into a laneway and out onto another street. The undulating sound of the alarm ripped through the night. It would wake half the neighbourhood.

  Cole hurried as fast as he could without running. He crossed Portobello Road and saw several stragglers making their way home after a long night. Soon Cole was far enough away to avoid any immediate suspicion, and fifteen minutes later he boarded a night bus on Notting Hill Gate and slumped in a seat upstairs. Once he relaxed, he afforded himself a wide grin. Get in there. What a rush. And he didn't even need to piss again. Game on, Alice. Game on.

  38

  Ian jolted awake. A cold chill ran through him as the house alarm shrieked. He rubbed his eyes and sat up on the bed. Had someone broken in? He shivered again and felt the hairs on his arms tingle as adrenaline shot through him. His legs trembled as he stared at the door, expecting a burglar to burst in wielding a weapon.

  He got to his feet and pulled on his dressing gown with his heart thumping in his chest. When he took a first tentative step towards the door, he thought he might fall, but he kept going. On the landing, the noise from the wailing alarm hurt his ears and he forced himself down the stairs to the hallway.

  There was no sign of anyone, and he thought it might be a sensor fault. He checked the alert displayed on the alarm panel and saw the lounge zone had tripped the system. Rather than switch the sound off, he pushed open the lounge door, switched the light on and looked inside. “Oh Christ.”

  The curtains in the window moved in a breeze. A brick lay on the carpet surrounded by large splinters of glass that glinted on the floor. He backed away and switched off the alarm. Silence followed, but his ears still rang. Why the hell would someone do that? But he knew the answer. It wasn't his window someone broke, but Alice’s. The fact she wasn't home was immaterial.

  Ian shook his head as if the act would somehow clear his mind. It didn’t. But he needed to call the police and he knew just who to call. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom and rummaged for Marks’ card in his wallet. There would be satisfaction in waking the bastard from his sleep, assuming he slept. From what Ian had seen, nothing would surprise him with Marks, and he doubted much would stop Marks’ prosecution of his war on terror. Not even the innocent.

  Marks answered after two rings. “Yes?”

  “Ian Morgan, detective…”

  “What do you want?”

  “Someone threw a brick through our window a few minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s a crime isn’t it?”

  “I’m with the National Counter Terrorism Security Office. It’s is a local police matter. Not my problem.”

  “Can you call them?”

  Marks snorted. “Do it yourself. And please, don’t call me unless it’s related to a terrorist offence.”

  “Sorry to have troubled you, detective. But I need to point out this is your fault.”

  “Why is that, Mr Morgan?”

  “If you hadn’t been so public when arresting Alice, this would never have happened. Now people know where she lives.”

  “Look, you’re selling the house. Move out if you're that worried.”

  “Well…” The phone beeped. Marks had disconnected.

  Ian dialled 999, and the operator put him through to the police call handler who refused to rate the situation as requiring an immediate response.

  “But it’s a physical attack on my house.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir. Whoever did this is likely long gone.”

  “Supposing they’re not?”

  “I’ll rate it as prompt which means you should have someone with you within 60 minutes. If there’s someone in the area, it may be quicker.”

  “What am I meant to do until then?”

  “Board up your window with something.”

  Ian sighed and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Wonderful. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  While he waited for the police to arrive, Ian put on a pair of shoes and cleaned up the broken glass. In a crammed kitchen drawer, he dug out masking tape and the scissors. There were cardboard boxes storing junk in the utility room, and he upended one onto the floor, kicking the contents into a corner. He ripped the box apart and brought it into the lounge where he taped it over the shattered window.

  Back in the kitchen, he stashed the scissors and tape and made a coffee. Before he drank the coffee, he felt brave enough to check the street outside. As he went to open the hall door, he noticed something on the floor which he had missed earlier. He saw it was a drip mat from a pub, and some bastard had written ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’ on it. Probably the same bastard who broke the window.

  Then he noticed the wet patch by the door. At first, he stepped back, thinking it might be petrol or another accelerant, then he got down on his knees, sniffed it and shook his head. He had a fair idea of what it might be.

  There was no sign of anyone on the street outside. The police call handler was right, whoever did it legged it when the alarm sounded, so Ian went back inside and drank the coffee. He cursed the fact he had to travel to Frankfurt in the morning. Now he'd have to change the flight and get the window fixed.

  Over an hour later, the doorbell rang, and two uniformed police officers stood on the step.

  “Hello. I’m Constable Stephanie Moore and this is Constable Aaron McNulty. We received several calls about an alarm and a broken window. May we come in?”

  “Uh... Yeah.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ian Morgan. I live here with my girlfriend, but she’s away.” He thought he saw a flicker of recognition in their faces. No doubt they knew who lived here. Everyone else seemed to.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m unharmed. Somebody threw a brick through the window. It broke the glass and set off the alarm. They also put a drip mat through the letterbox. It says, ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’.” He pointed at the carpet by the front door. “He pissed through the letterbox too.”

  “Lovely. Is it all right if I check around the house?” McNulty asked.

  Ian shrugged. “I suppose.”

  Stephanie Moore picked up the beer mat and studied it before putting it into a cellophane bag she produced from her utility belt. “Which window?”

  “In here.” Ian led her into the lounge. “What do you think?”

  Moore looked around and spread her arms. “I hate to say this, but it’s probably linked to recent events.”

  “Alice had nothing to do with the attack. Turns out the terrorist came on to her last year, she brushed him off, and then he implicated her as an act of revenge.”

  Moore nodded. “I guess shit happens.”

  “People are saying terrible things on Twitter and other social media platforms. Aren't they illegal?”

  “We’d have to arrest a hell of a lot of people.”

  Ian sighed. “I don't mean to be rude or
anything, but that’s not very helpful.”

  “Sorry. But there isn't a lot we can do unless there’s an imminent physical threat.”

  “Surely a rape threat counts?”

  “She’s not here, is she?”

  “No. She’s in Copenhagen.”

  “No imminent physical threat then, is there?”

  Ian shrugged. “But what happens when she comes back next week?”

  “The mob will have moved on by then. Their attention span is short, and they get bored easily. Especially if there’s no-one to argue with.”

  McNulty stomped down the stairs and entered the lounge. “No-one else here.” He looked around the room, then he nodded at the photograph above the mantelpiece. “Now that’s a big photo. Nice.” He moved closer. “Very nice.” He appeared to study it for a moment before he turned to Moore, “What do you reckon?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him and nodded towards the frame. “The photo?”

  “No.” He waved an arm around. “This. The broken window.”

  “Retaliation for South Ken,” Moore said. “Considering the note through the door saying, ‘Fuck off back to Mecca’ and possible urine on the carpet.”

  McNulty nodded. “We’ll write it up, check for CCTV around here.” He turned to Ian. “Don’t expect too much. When emotions run high, the opportunists pick on easy targets. We’ll do the prints and see if there’s any DNA. They won’t be back tonight. Keep your alarm on at all times.”

  “But what if it happens again?”

  “Put this number in your phone. It’s the station. Call us if you’ve any problems.” He glanced at Moore, and while she seemed to shake her head, Ian couldn’t be certain. McNulty turned back to Ian. “This is likely a one off. It shouldn’t happen again.”

  After the police left, Ian went to bed, but he tossed and turned with his ears alert for any sound. Thoughts crowded his head. The one thing he could be thankful for was that he had declined Jo’s persistent pleas to spend the night at hers. He decided not to tell Alice about the window. The less she knew the better.