Hunted

by Ed James

  A few seconds later, the woman handed the mic back and Tulloch snatched it out of the karaoke guy’s hands. He jabbed a finger in the guy’s face and got an open-palmed gesture in response. Then Tulloch started singing something, his mates at the bar laughing on cue.

  Chantal tapped a nail on the screen. ‘What was he singing?’

  José clicked his fingers a few times, then jabbed one in the air. ‘Hall and Oates? “The Private Eyes”?’

  ‘Guy’s got taste.’ Chantal shook her head at him, then at the monitor. ‘Oh, God.’

  On the screen, Tulloch had pulled his trousers down and waved his penis around. Spinning it around like a propeller. Eye-wateringly long and thick.

  Her eyes bulged. ‘Well, that’s a big one, alright.’

  José rolled his eyes at her. ‘I see bigger.’

  The three barmen, including José, raced across the stage, one of them pushing Tulloch over. He tried to fight but stumbled over again.

  José hauled him to his feet and escorted him out of the bar.

  ‘Man like him is bad news.’ José shook his head again. Onscreen, he pulled Tulloch’s trousers up and helped him with his belt. ‘He was very drunk. I had to help put penis away.’

  ‘Bet you did . . .’ Chantal grabbed the remote control and wound it forward.

  Tulloch’s mates necked their shots and left the bar. José stayed with Tulloch all that time, supposedly to stop him from getting back in, but there was no sound recording.

  Chantal cleared her throat. ‘What were you saying to him?’

  ‘He was talking about girlfriend. She likes big cock, he say.’

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘That was it.’ José flicked his eyebrows. ‘Such a waste.’

  ‘Do you know where they went?’

  ‘Sorry.’ José reached down to the printer and handed Chantal images of Tulloch and his mates, all with their cocks safely tucked away. ‘This is all.’

  Chantal smiled as she took the page and handed him the fifty in return. She didn’t let go and when he looked in her eyes, she gave him a business card. ‘You call me if he comes back, okay?’

  * * *

  Chantal left Hunter giving his mobile number to José and strolled across the bar. A couple were sitting in the window now, smiling as they sipped at sparkling white wine.

  Luisa was leaning against the door, arms folded. When Chantal pushed her empty coffee cup across the bar, she took it, tired irritation showing in the curl of her lip. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

  Chantal nodded. ‘Why didn’t he want you talking to us?’

  ‘You heard him. It’s bad for business, isn’t it?’

  ‘That child was kidnapped in England?’

  ‘So? You think that player knows anything but where his next blowjob’s coming from?’

  Chantal unfolded the printed pages and pointed at the photo of a big thug talking to Luisa. ‘Looks like you know this man.’

  The barmaid took one look at the photo and smiled. ‘He had a thick accent. Northern or something. I couldn’t understand it. He was after a Crazy Vimto, but I didn’t know what it was.’

  ‘Did you get him one?’

  ‘Yeah. He explained it. Port and vodka added to a bottle of blue WKD.’ Luisa shook her head. ‘Classy.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hunter

  Hunter walked down the road, one hand in his pocket rubbing against his keycard. The street leading down to reception was quiet, just an idling taxi belching out brownish fumes. The sun beat down hard, like it was begging forgiveness for all the earlier rain. Its harsh light was flaring across the sea, dappling in the afternoon sky. No clouds, just a blue so deep he thought he might drown if he looked at it any longer.

  Still not sure whether that was the elemental force of nature or the first sign of a murder hangover.

  Best not think about it.

  A few girls sat in one of the gardens lining the road, stretching out on the lawns as they passed around a bottle of Vodka.

  The vaguest whiff of skunk on the breeze, mixing with coffee and food smells. Mostly cheese and herbs, the tang of tomato sauce. No meat, thank God.

  Hunter stopped on the corner heading towards their apartment and looked at Chantal. ‘What exactly did you mean about Tulloch’s cock?’

  Chantal gave him that look, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. ‘You saw it, right?’

  ‘It?’ Hunter sighed as a coach pulled past them. ‘Looked like two to me.’

  ‘You need to stop worrying, okay?’ She laughed as she stroked his arm. ‘I know what I like, Craig. I’ve had a huge guy before and it’s not much fun, believe me.’

  Huge? Terrific.

  Hunter scowled at her. ‘Look, it’s—’

  The bus hissed to a stop over by reception and the door unfolded. A gang of pissed blokes started jumping out, roaring with laughter and shouting at each other. Big lads. More squaddies.

  ‘Hold that cock.’ Hunter squinted at one of them. ‘I meant “thought”.’ Wonky ears, dead eyes. He got out his phone and checked the photos Elvis had sent over. ‘That guy looks very much like Gordon Brownlee.’

  Chantal frowned over. ‘Tulloch’s mate?’

  ‘Certainly matches the description.’ Hunter flicked through the rest of them. ‘No sign of Tulloch, though.’ He put his mobile away. ‘Want to have a wander over and chance it?’

  ‘Got a better idea.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Chantal

  Chantal strode over to the apartments lining the road and stopped by the second from last. Four alcohol corpses lay on the grass, groaning as they sipped wine from teacups. ‘Bekah, how’s it going?’

  ‘Chantal!’ She bounced to her feet, almost rising above the fence. Christ knows where she got the energy from. She was lobster-red, must’ve fallen asleep in the garden. ‘We lost you, chuck. What happened?’

  Chantal smiled at her. ‘Had to get a coffee. Too much . . .’ She made the drinky-drinky motion with her hand and looked around. A couple of the other girls from the bar lay on the grass, sipping vodka from the bottle. ‘Thought you were going clubbing?’

  ‘We fell asleep.’ Bekah gingerly prodded her arm and winced. ‘So what’s new?’

  ‘Going to get some drinks in the bar, if you fancy it?’

  ‘Do I ever!’ Bekah vaulted the fence and landed without a sound. She held out a hand to Hunter, like a fairytale princess expecting it to be kissed. ‘I’m Bekah. Take it you’re Craig?’

  Hunter didn’t look like he knew the Disney protocol. He smiled and wrapped her hand in his paw. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Lover boy.’ Bekah leered at Chantal. ‘Heard a lot about you, didn’t I, chuck?’

  Chucka . . .

  Chantal grimaced.

  ‘Have you?’ Hunter’s eyebrows looked out of control. ‘All good, I hope.’

  ‘The best!’ Bekah skipped towards reception, the throng of squaddies parting like the Red Sea, most of them checking her out.

  Chantal grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘Go to the bar. I’ll try to use her as bait.’

  * * *

  Chantal leaned back in the chair and took another dry sip of rosé, head thumping in tune to the awful club mix blaring out of the indoors dance area.

  So much for the plan, the plan that had backfired the second they’d set foot in the hotel bar . . .

  The tables near them were filled with older people, enjoying the sun. Not exactly dignified as they tucked into cheap Portuguese booze. Still no sign of Tulloch’s crew, either.

  The hen party sipped white wine instead of shooters. The bar staff still hadn’t cleared away the bottles of empty spirits lying on their sides.

  Bekah leaned forward, her teenage face crumpling with angst. ‘So, my boyfriend, right? All he wants to do is a quick shag and that’s it. It’s, like, boring?’

  Still going on about her boyfriend back home being rubbish in bed. He’s a teenager, it’s what they are, love.

  The way
she was leaning in to Hunter . . . Felt like she was angling for a threesome. Or maybe a twosome. Wonder what Craig would say to that? Maybe I’m surplus to requirements.

  Chantal took a proper sip of wine. Feel a bit better. ‘And have you talked to him about it?’

  ‘Talk? He doesn’t listen! Do you know what I mean, chuck?’

  Chantal gritted her teeth. If she says that one more time . . . ‘I know what you mean.’ She looked at Hunter. Poor guy looked bored to death, so probably interested in neither a two- nor a threesome. Or he’s still preoccupied with matters of greater length and girth. Were all men perv—

  ‘Here we go, boys!’ One of the squaddies from the bus sauntered out into the sunshine, dirty Scottish accent and he didn’t care who knew it. Tray full of fizzing beer, shades on the top of his head, shorts and T-shirt, his skin salmon pink, at least in the few places where it wasn’t tattoo-black. ‘This is the game!’ He put the tray down and started chucking some tables together, pushing the chairs into place around them. Enough for a squad of about twenty.

  Bekah hadn’t even noticed, but the lads had certainly spotted her. She leaned in close to Chantal. ‘And he won’t even go down on me.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Hunter

  Hunter sipped another millimetre off his beer. Still loads left. Feels like I’ve wandered into some German fairy-tale, the glass replenishing itself as if by magic every time I take a sip. The illusion broke as soon as he looked up from the glass and saw the new squaddies livening up the place. Didn’t recognise any of them. Certainly no sign of Brownlee or Tulloch.

  Bekah’s doing my nut in. So much banality in one skinny body. Fat Jim back at the station always went on about young girls, the dirty old bastard. Can’t see the appeal. Old enough to be her father and I’m not even thirty-five. The thought of a man my age or older shagging someone so immature . . . Alcohol and morals, a recipe for gut rot.

  She said something he didn’t catch.

  Chantal looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face. She leaned forward. ‘Do you, you know?’ She stuck her tongue in her cheek.

  ‘All. The. Time.’ Bekah sipped at her Breezer like it was a formula bottle. ‘And I swallow, too. And not a lick of thanks from that bastard.’

  Save me from the tedium . . .

  They were surrounded by hens slowing down and stags speeding up.

  Behind enemy lines. Getting rat-arsed with a hen party. Getting bloody nowhere, while Tulloch was . . .

  What?

  Back home, he was abusing women who provided some form of consent. Paisley, on some level, at some point in time, had agreed to have sex with him. When she withdrew, he would’ve rationalised his rape as merely taking his conjugal rights. Or he just brutalised her without a second thought, but in her case, it hadn’t started with sexual violence.

  Out here, though, rabid stags were unlikely to bother with consent before firing into pissed teens like Bekah.

  Hunter necked a couple of inches of beer, then swirled the dregs round, trying to get some head to foam up. When none did, he just sank the rest and hoped it would wash down the filthy aftertaste of his thoughts. ‘I’ll get another round in.’

  Chantal clasped his hand and gave him a quick squeeze. ‘G&T for me.’

  Bekah swayed in the sunshine, waving her bottle in the air. ‘Another Bacardi Breezer!’

  ‘On my way, ladies.’ Hunter huffed up to his feet and walked inside, dumping his empty glass on the bartop.

  The barman gave him a sly nod as he poured out three pints simultaneously. Looked like he’d lost the will to live, if he’d ever had it.

  Bloody knee was still sore from that tussle in Galashiels. Felt a million miles away.

  He took out his phone to check how far it actually was, but the message symbol caught his eye. Two from Finlay. He pocketed it and rested against the bar. Still nothing from Elvis about those other squaddies.

  The barman pushed three beers over to the customer to Hunter’s right. ‘Ten Euro fifty.’

  ‘Here you go.’ The lumbering hulk of muscle dumped a note and a coin on the bar. He picked up three pints in pyramid formation and gave Hunter a nod.

  Gordon Brownlee.

  If you opened the dictionary at squaddie, it would show a picture of Brownlee. Thick cranium, mouth hanging open, beady little eyes focused on the foaming pints. Had a bit of a twitch, every so often, just when you thought it had stopped. The wonky ears were less obvious in real life, but the eyes . . . The eyes . . .

  Hunter blocked him off. ‘Here, do I know you?’

  Brownlee scowled at him. ‘Doubt it, mate.’ He pushed past him into the sunshine.

  The barman tapped him on the shoulder, eyes wide. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I have that beer you ordered?’

  * * *

  Hunter clattered the tray down on the table. Nobody looked up except Chantal.

  Gordon Brownlee was sitting next to Bekah. He’d lost two of his pints and it looked like he’d need reinforcements soon. In the time he’d been at the bar, the squaddies’ table had filled up and spilled out in their direction. ‘Aye, of course it’s a hard life.’

  Bekah was purring at him. She tossed her hair back. ‘Tell me, do you miss your wife?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Brownlee bellowed out a laugh. ‘I’m not married yet!’

  Hunter sat between Brownlee and Chantal, and distributed the drinks.

  Chantal pounced on Bekah, whispering in her ear. She got a giggle for her effort at discretion.

  Hunter cleared his throat and frowned at Brownlee. ‘It’s Gordon, isn’t it?’

  He shifted his gaze from Bekah’s bare thighs up to Hunter, squinting at the sunlight. ‘Look, I don’t know you, man. Piss off.’

  ‘Craig Hunter.’ He held out a hand. ‘You were in Kandahar, right?’

  ‘Not for very long.’ Brownlee supped at his beer. ‘I don’t recognise you.’

  ‘You still serving?’

  Brownlee settled back. Slightly more comfortable, the ice beginning to thaw. ‘For my sins, aye.’

  ‘You know a Sean Tulloch?’

  ‘Big Sean . . . What a guy.’ Brownlee bellowed out more laughter. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Served with him in Kandahar. He with you?’

  Brownlee reached over and tapped someone on the back. ‘Matty?’

  Matty could’ve passed for Sean Tulloch’s brother. Same height and bulk, his twinkly eyes twisted by booze, coke and God knows what else. Although, chances were not even God knew what had addled that ogre’s mind. He was puffing on a cigar, like he was some Hollywood big shot. And of course he had his top off, cupping a hand around his bicep as he flexed. Bloody squaddies on R&R . . . ‘All right, mate?’ Throaty Leeds accent. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Boy here says he knows Sean from Kandahar.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Matty looked him up and down. ‘What squad were you in?’

  ‘3 Scots.’ Hunter smiled at him, careful to maintain eye contact. ‘Stationed at Fort George. You?’

  Matty picked up a pint and sucked down a third in one go. ‘Parachute.’

  ‘Still in?’

  A slight nod. ‘Thinking of giving it up, though.’ Matty swivelled his chair round. ‘My year’s notice is up in May. Thinking of moving out here.’

  ‘Sounds ideal.’

  ‘It is, mate.’ Matty drank some more, his eyes still not quite buying what Hunter was selling. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Jacked it back in 2010. Doing private security now.’ Hunter drank some more of his own pint. Spin the lie through more questions, rather than inventing too much. Matty wasn’t biting, though. ‘Been out in Syria for six months.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Worse than Kandahar, I swear, but I’m a step removed from the frontline, you know?’

  Matty punched Brownlee on the shoulder. Hard enough to make noise. ‘We met some bloke who’s been over there, didn’t we?’

  ‘Aye, last night.
’ Brownlee clinked his fingers off the glass. ‘Not a very nice guy, mind. Older punter. Cracked in the head. Being in the army that long’ll make you go that way, right?’

  Chantal sashayed past them to the toilet, arm-in-arm with Bekah.

  Matty whistled through his teeth. ‘That your bird, mate?’

  Hunter nodded as he sipped more beer. ‘Love of my life.’

  ‘Talk about punching above your weight.’

  ‘You’re not the first to say that.’

  Matty cackled with laugher. ‘You’re a six at best, right. I’d say she’s a nine. At least.’ He thwacked Brownlee on the arm. ‘What’d you give her, Gogs?’

  ‘I’d give her one.’

  Matty rocked back with laughter. ‘These boys . . .’ He puffed on the cigar. Didn’t look like he was going to share it around. Selfish as well as a creep.

  Terrific.

  Matty blew out smoke like he was about to blow a whole lot more up someone’s arse. ‘You’re sound, you are. Not like that prick last night. Wouldn’t believe we were squaddies!’

  ‘What a wanker.’ Hunter drank some more beer. Feel like I’m drowning. Maybe now’s the time to close the deal. ‘So, is Sean around?’

  ‘Was. God knows where he is now, mate.’ Matty licked the edge of the cigar. ‘We was away shark fishing, not that we saw any. A few boys jumped out of the coach back in the old town. Supposed to be meeting them later, but they could get lost in a toilet, know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Only too well . . . Tell you what would be a laugh. What about if I meet up with you boys later. It’ll wind Sean right up. You know he hates spiders, aye?’

  Brownlee was scowling at him. ‘Spiders? Piss off.’

  Hunter flicked up his eyebrows. ‘I’ll get a load of plastic ones from one of those tat shops and we can throw them at him.’