Revenge Runs Deep

by Pat Young

  M

  She added her mobile phone number and hit send. It was done.

  ***

  CHAPTER 20

  Joe rubbed his hand across his face. His mouth was dry and for the first time in months, he wanted a drink. Try as he might, he couldn’t get Smeaton’s voice out of his head.

  Joe wished he’d never returned the call.

  Smeaton had sounded apoplectic on the phone; he was outraged that Joe had gone to the papers with his story of radical cuts to services and widespread bullying of staff. Joe, apparently, was very lucky Smeaton had ‘a powerful friend’ at the newspaper who had killed the story at birth.

  ‘I could have your job for this, you know. How dare you betray this council? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you? Just what, exactly, did you hope to accomplish?’

  Joe cringed to think how pathetic his reply must have sounded, ‘I was hoping public pressure might make you change your mind about shutting the bothy.’

  ‘The bothy is shutting, Joe. End of story. The decision has been made and ratified by the council. Get over it. You’re already hanging on to your job by the skin of your teeth. Try pulling another stunt like this and you’ll be out. Do I make myself clear?’

  He had repeated the question and waited until Joe, through gritted teeth, had muttered yes.

  Then Smeaton went in for the kill.

  ‘Oh Joe, please take this in the supportive spirit in which it’s offered. I was thinking, with your track record, the last thing you need is any kind of investigation into your conduct, if you get my drift.’

  Rage had made it almost impossible for him to speak, but Joe had managed to say, ‘No. I don’t get your drift.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t want anyone asking why you’re so keen to keep the bothy open, would we? For you and your boys.’ Joe had heard him chuckling before the line went dead.

  Joe took a glass from the cupboard beside the window and held it under the cold tap. He could resist the urge; he wouldn’t let that man drive him to drink again. After Sal died, Joe had stepped right to the edge of that particular abyss, stood with his toes sticking out over the lip. He remembered what a scary place that had been. He’d vowed never to go back there.

  The kettle clicked off, reminding him he’d come through to the kitchen to fill his hot water bottle. He found the bed too big and too cold without Sally. The cold he could do something about, at least. He used the last of the boiling water to make himself a cup of malted drink. When he went to put the teaspoon in the dishwasher, he caught sight of his pyjama-clad reflection in the dark window, ‘Is this what it’s come to?’ he asked. ‘Water bottles and hot drinks at bedtime? Jesus Christ, kill me now.’

  As he passed the study, the spectral glow of the computer screen beckoned him. He hadn’t shut it down for the night, something Sally had always nagged him about.

  There were three messages in his e-mail inbox. One claimed to be a great deal on Viagra, while the other offered to enhance his manhood by at least eight inches. Joe deleted them both, grinning. The third was from Marty and had been sent only ten minutes earlier. Joe read it twice and wondered if she had been boozing.

  He remembered his hot drink, cooling by the minute, and shut down the computer. As the room dimmed to darkness he looked down at the shadowy lane that ran behind his house and thought of Marty’s words about meeting Smeaton in a similar place.

  ‘He’d better hope he never meets me in a dark alley. If someone put a dagger in my hand, I swear to God, I’d kill him and walk away.’

  Joe shivered, and drew the curtains across the window, shutting out the night and thoughts of killing.

  ***

  CHAPTER 21

  Sheila was waiting for her outside their favourite coffee shop. Huddled under an umbrella like a little old lady.

  ‘Hey,’ Marty said brightly, ‘You should have waited inside. How are you feeling?’

  Sheila gave her a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  Sheila nodded, fighting back tears.

  ‘Come on, pal, let’s get you a coffee. And maybe a slice of cake to cheer you up?

  ‘I wish it was that easy, Marty.’

  Marty leaned over and patted her arm. ‘I’m so sorry for you, Sheila. It must be awful, grieving for your best friend.’

  Sheila nodded, unable to speak until she’d blown her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘It’s not just the grief that’s getting me down. I’m so angry I could, aargh!’ She made two fists and bit down hard on one set of knuckles.

  ‘Easy,’ said Marty. ‘that looks painful.’

  ‘The anger is bad enough. What I can’t handle is the utter helplessness. Smeaton drove Liz to suicide, I know he did, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.’

  ‘I know that feeling only too well.’

  ‘I told the police, you know. That he was to blame for her death. I asked them to arrest him.’

  ‘I can’t see how they can do that. Liz left a suicide note and didn’t the post-mortem show she died of an overdose of prescription drugs?’

  ‘Yes, her mother’s. I saw them months ago, in her bathroom cabinet. I asked her, jokingly, if she was hoarding them. She said it was such a palaver nowadays, taking them back to the pharmacy, but she’d get round to it, eventually. What if she was keeping them for a reason, and I did nothing?’

  ‘How could you do anything, if Liz didn’t confide in you?’

  Sheila’s eyes filled. ‘I knew Smeaton’s harassment was driving her crazy. Why didn’t I make her get rid of those pills?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, sweetheart. You weren’t to know Liz would take them.’

  Sheila rummaged in her handbag till she found a fresh tissue and touched it to the corner of her eyes. When she had composed herself and taken a sip of coffee, she said, ‘I went to see a solicitor too.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘She, not he.’

  ‘Sorry. What did she say?’

  She asked if I had evidence; wanted to know if Liz been keeping a log of the bullying.’

  ‘Had she?’

  ‘I’ve been on to her to do that for ages.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’ve no idea.’ Sheila made a helpless gesture and told Marty about the items that had disappeared from her friend’s office.

  ‘And you’re sure there were only a few things missing? You don’t think the whole place could have been cleared, say, ready for an acting head?’

  ‘No. It looks like nothing has been taken but some files. All the personal stuff is there, photos and so on. I picked this up.’ Sheila took out the photo she’d taken from Liz’s desk.

  Marty smiled at the picture of the two friends. ‘This is great. You look so happy. Is that Alton Towers in the background?’

  ‘Yes, we took a group of kids from her school and mine, as part of Liz’s anti-bigotry project.’

  ‘Good for her,’ said Marty, ‘we need lots more of that in Scotland.’

  ‘You did some good work at Moorcroft Academy to cut across the sectarian divide, didn’t you?’

  ‘We did and it was effective, to a certain extent, but that’s what I mean when I say we need more of it. Something good gets started, people get involved and then, just when it’s gaining enough momentum to really make an impact, the money’s withdrawn. Why does Smeaton just roll over to please the politicians?’

  ‘Marty, listen, I’m convinced it was Smeaton behind the clearing of files from Liz’s office.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I think he’s terrified it will come out that his bullying drove Liz to suicide. He was getting rid of evidence. If he’s destroyed any log of his bullying and lack of support, there’s nothing to prove he was harassing her.’

  ‘You’ve got her suicide note, don’t you?’

  ‘The solicitor says it proves nothing. Without evidence to back it up.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awful.’


  ‘Marty, the things he said to her last Friday, and the threats he made? Unforgiveable. And my friend, a beautiful person, took the only escape route she could see.’ Sheila brushed away a tear. ‘He’s to blame for her death. I know he is. But there’s not a thing I can do. Is there?’

  ‘There might be.’

  ‘Marty, come on. You, of all people should know. He has all the power. Did Smeaton ever apologise to you for getting it wrong?’

  ‘Did he hell! I was expected to pick up where I left off, as if nothing had happened. Resigning seemed like the best way to make my protest about the lack of support I received from my employers and the hell that man put me through. I know now what a stupid move that was, but at the time it felt like a grand gesture.’

  ‘Didn’t I hear something about a petition to get you re-instated?’

  ‘Yes, the kids organised that although I believe some members of staff quietly suggested it to the sixth years. As far as I know, every single teacher and pupil in the school signed it, plus the office staff, janitors, dinner ladies, cleaners, you name it. Oh, and several hundred parents.’

  ‘And it had no effect?’

  ‘Quite the opposite. Smeaton hit back and threatened to discipline the teachers who instigated the protest. Nobody at HQ gave a damn. I’d resigned, end of story. Smeaton got rid of a troublemaker, replaced me with a yes man. I played right into his hands.’

  ‘No wonder you’re bitter.’

  ‘Bitter? Oh, don’t get me started, Sheila. I’m raging. It’s like an acid, eating away at me. But I’ve decided it’s time I did something to make Smeaton pay. I want revenge. For me, for Liz, for all the other poor sods he’s harmed. And I want you to help me.’

  ***

  CHAPTER 22

  Joe’s trip had gone well but the memory of blue skies and crisp dry days vanished when the plane touched down in Glasgow. Ribbons of light reflected on the wet tarmac and passengers hugged themselves against the damp air that slapped them like a cold cloth. What a welcome to Scotland.

  He hadn’t paid much attention to where he’d left his car, thinking it would be simple to find his huge, beat-up, old Land Rover among smaller cars. When he eventually found it, the driver’s door was stuck, as usual. He gave up with a sigh and went round to open the passenger door. He threw his bag into the back and clambered over into the driving seat, narrowly avoiding damage to his privates.

  Sal had nagged at him for years to get a new car, but he’d refused, claiming the car suited his lifestyle and was part of his image. He slapped the dashboard and said aloud, ‘We’re a team, you and me. We’ll rust into old age together.’

  He turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared like a great beast coming to life. A cloud of exhaust hung smoke-like in the cool, night air. He smelt diesel fumes as he reversed and watched the miasma in his rear mirror. He could almost hear Sally’s voice, ‘Not very environmentally friendly, Joe, for a man who loves Nature.’ She’d been right. It wasn’t eco, plus the door was always jamming shut, the hand-brake was dodgy and it would be lucky to pass another MOT but Joe loved this old car. It would break his heart to part with it, one of his last links to Sally.

  When the traffic thinned out after Livingston, Joe began to relax and think about the contacts he’d made on his trip and how they’d helped him find exactly what he was looking for. Now he had a plan, all he had to do was sell the flat and get his hands on enough money to execute it.

  Third letter P, fourth letter M, and Joe was into his digital bank account. He clicked on the screen that allowed him to see recent transactions. Good, he had enough in his current account to set the ball rolling.

  A Google search quickly found Western Union and Joe logged in his e-mail address and password. He had been told to pay in US Dollars which had surprised him although he understood why an international currency might be preferred to the local one. He would have thought euros would be the currency of choice, but then, what did he know? He’d been instructed to make a down payment of two thousand dollars. Western Union’s website promised him that his money would be transferred immediately and available for collection tomorrow. He typed the amount into the little box and continued through the process till he got to the security section. Choose a question and answer. It all seemed a bit cloak and dagger but the last thing Joe wanted was for someone else to get their hands on the money and his deal to fall through.

  He considered possible questions and rejected several. Manager of the Scottish football team? That was no good; the answer changed as often as the players’ shirts. Mother’s maiden name? Too easy to find out if someone could be bothered to try. Pet’s name? He’d never owned a pet in his life, not even a goldfish. Where did Joe meet Sally? Perfect.

  On the next page he checked all the details and stopped, overwhelmed by last minute panic. He took his hand off the mouse and rubbed his face, feeling the bristles on his unshaven jaw. He needed to be sure he was doing the right thing. It would be very difficult to get the money back if he changed his mind. Or at least, very difficult without pissing off people he might not want to piss off. What would Sal say, if she were here?

  ‘You know the answer to that, Joe,’ her voice seemed to whisper.

  He grabbed the mouse and slid it across its mat. The tiny hand on the screen moved towards the yellow button marked ‘send money’. It hovered there and hesitated for one heartbeat. Click. In the silence of the flat it sounded like a gunshot.

  ***

  CHAPTER 23

  Joe had decided this was the day he must tell the boys. The council had made a decision to shut the bothy. No more outdoor education and not a thing he could do about it. He’d let them down, big time.

  He had arranged to pick them up at eleven o’ clock, which meant an early rise for most of them. They were at the bus shelter when he pulled up in the van. He did a quick head count. Good, all present and correct. As usual, Slug was last up the step and on to the minibus. ‘Any news of your brother, Slug?’

  ‘Aye, he’s goin to be aw right, Sur. Jist bad cuts and bruises, ye know? Ma mammy says she wishes he’d lost a leg cos at least that wid get him oot Afghanistan.’

  Joe remained silent while the boys discussed the merits and demerits of losing a leg. Joe was shocked by Slug’s mother’s comment and by the cold-blooded way the boys discussed the loss of a limb. For Joe that fate would be worse than death.

  ‘Everybody bring some lunch?’ he asked, in an effort to change the subject.

  ‘Aye, and ma granda gave me the Thermos flask he had when he worked in the pits.’

  Joe moved his head to look at the boys in the rear view mirror. TJ and Dykesy were deep in conversation.

  Dangermoose piped up, ‘Whit is a Thermos flask anyway?’ There was a belt of laughter followed by a decent explanation from Dykesy. Clever wee bugger. Should be in school sitting five Highers.

  Someone, maybe Smithy, asked in a very proper upper-class voice, ‘So, Liam, tell me, what did you put in your Thermos flask?’

  ‘Irn-bru.’

  This was greeted with a gale of guffaws.

  ‘Irn-bru?’ screeched Smithy, ‘Whit? Oot a bottle?’

  ‘Naw, oot a can.’

  This time Joe joined in the mirth, amused by the idea of Liam opening a can of juice and pouring it into his prized vintage Thermos.

  ‘Were you “de-can-ting” it, Liam?’ asked Dykesy, but there was no answering laughter from the boys. Dykesy’s humour and intelligence was often way beyond his mates. He covered up the unfunny joke by asking, ‘Whit are we doin the day, Big Man?’

  ‘We’ll need to see what the weather’s like when we get up there. Does anyone fancy a spot of canoeing?’

  ‘Def-in-ate-ly!’

  The weather had settled to a mild, sunny day when they got to the bothy. The loch shimmered silver in the weak, wintery rays. The surface was calm, for once, no wind tearing it to shreds.

  ‘Okay lads, canoeing it is. Let’s get organized.’ Moving as one, the bo
ys gathered everything they needed, like a well-drilled army unit. Some of them would thrive in the forces. It was the only escape route from Bankside these days, that or the jail.

  Out on the reservoir Joe watched the skill with which the boys paddled and manoeuvred, and savoured a pride in their achievements. With their blue boats, red waterproofs and yellow life preservers, they made a colourful picture on the surface of the graphite loch. Against a diluted blue sky dark firs contrasted with the pale golds of last year’s grass and the rusts of withered bracken. Joe thought he’d rarely seen a prettier sight and his heart contracted with emotion. How was he going to take all this away from these kids?

  With the canoes pulled clear of the water, the lads skimmed stones from the little gravel beach, shouting insults at each other’s efforts.

  Joe had planned to tell the lads about the bothy closing after they’d eaten their lunch. He wasn’t looking forward to it. ‘Anybody fancy going up the hill to eat?’ he asked. ‘It’s a great day to be outside.’ To his surprise, everyone agreed, even Slug, who was never keen on delaying food.

  When they sat down the boys seemed in good humour, their spirits as high as the hill they’d just climbed.

  ‘Hey boys, ah can see America,’ said Dangermoose, pointing west, ‘an ah can see hooses. D’ye think that’s New York?’

  TJ stood up and went to his side. He gave the wee guy a good-natured shove and said, ‘That’s no America, ya dobber. That’s Ireland.’

  ‘Naw, it’s no,’ shouted Liam. ‘I was born in Ireland. Tell them, Sur. That’s no Ireland, is it?’

  ‘You’re right, Liam, it’s not Ireland. It’s Arran.’

  ‘Is that the place ye go on the boat fae Ardrossan, Sur?’ asked Dykesy.