Remember Me 1

by Ian C. P. Irvine

  Whisky.

  And a knife.

  Like the two he’d been sharpening for the past hour. Just checking that he’d be sufficiently tooled up for this evening.

  Willy was no fool. He knew that he might get searched on the way in to the Reunion Ball, so he was taking his special DMs with him: the ones with the hollowed soles and the slit underneath where he could slip in the knives and simply walk through the detectors with the knives hidden underneath.

  Sometimes the alarm went off when he marched into a night club, but then he lifted his feet and showed them all the metal segs he arranged in a horseshoe around the heel. The bouncers always took one look, shrugged or laughed and waved him in.

  The knives weren’t that big but Willy didn’t need anything large. It was what you did with a knife, not its size, that really mattered.

  As he’d proved so many times before.

  Willy was excited. Really looking forward to the Ball.

  He’d spent the majority of his time that day thinking about all his victims over the years. He’d been proud to admit to himself that it had taken quite a while to think them through, because there had been so many. In particular, he’d thought about how close he’d come to actually killing someone.

  So far, none of the bastards he’d stuck had actually kicked the bucket.

  He’d always thought that was actually quite a good thing. In a way, it sort of made him a virgin.

  He’d never really done it before.

  Tonight that was going to change though.

  This evening was going to be the one when he finally popped his cherry: he’d bloody really do it tonight.

  He’d kill someone.

  Bloody really do it.

  Who he was going to kill he wasn’t quite sure.

  Which of them bastard teachers was about to die, Will didn’t actually know yet.

  He’d not made up his mind.

  But one of them would.

  Whoever he saw that pissed him off the most.

  Or whoever was the easiest.

  Tonight Willy was going to do it.

  For real.

  Chapter 16

  The New Portobello High School

  Milton Road

  Saturday

  19.45

  One by one the flashy cars turned into the car park from Milton Road, and ex-pupils from Portobello High School got out, smoothed down their clothes and then loitered with the sole intent of being seen by as many others as possible, standing beside their expensive cars, before wandering almost reluctantly over to the entrance to the new school.

  Without doubt, the car rental firms were doing a roaring trade tonight, and never before had the Portobello High School produced such an amazing crop of actors.

  As Willy Thomson sauntered into the car park after getting off the Lothian bus, he whistled as he saw all the cars lined up. Before he went home that night, he was going to have a fair old time with his house key!

  Just inside the school entrance, the foyer was chock-a-bloc with air-kisses, hugs and high-fives. People who had never ever really liked each other where hugging and kissing, and almost immediately begun to jostle and reposition themselves in a new ‘Post-Reunion’ hierarchy of students.

  Sadly, for many, the past twenty-five years seemed to vanish in the blinking of an eye, and old-feelings, insecurities and emotions resurfaced as if from nowhere. All their successes, all the therapy and all the education so many had gone through to better themselves in life, were quickly superseded or swept aside by the comments of their peers. Within minutes, the old school order was being reimposed, and everyone was once again a pupil back at school: a geek, a swat, a bully, a tart, a clart, a hack, teacher’s pet, a perfect Prefect, Head Boy, Head Girl.

  Friends who were actually once friends quickly gathered at the bar, and were friends once more. Those who had few friends, began to circulate in the main hall, looking for others like them, who were lost and desperately seeking some form of post-school validation.

  Stuart Nisbet watched it all, standing just inside the main hall, but having crossed the demarcation line from the foyer into the main event.

  He was one of the very few who had cycled to get here, and for now, probably also one of the very few who was genuinely unphased by all the social complexities and shenanigans which were going on around him.

  He wasn’t judging anyone. Just observing.

  Until his ‘epiphany’ – for want of a better word to describe the weird self-realisation that had overcome him just a few hours earlier, he’d been planning the same as most of the others: how to impress everyone else, and how to best make others regret any negative comments they’d made about him when he was at school.

  Stuart was fascinated by what was now happening.

  True, in the first moments, the veneer of the last quarter century was swiftly blown away, and old social values resurfaced and were reestablished, but what was happening next was truly brilliant.

  People HAD changed. After school, everyone had gone in different directions. Their values had evolved. Their likes, their dislikes. The words they used, their mannerism. Who they were.

  They were all different.

  So, it came as no surprise to Stuart that as the evening progressed, he saw some people who were initially immediately thrown back into their prior selves, actually emerge from their old ways, and walk away from their pasts.

  After initially standing by some of their school heroes, or bullies, or friends, some pupils realised that they were no longer ‘pupils’ or their former selves. And they saw that the old school bully who had always scared them was now still tiny, or smelled terribly, or even that previous school heroes were actually cowards, or boring, or that friends who once were, were now no longer friends, simply because they no longer had anything in common. As a result, as the boredom set in, or the initial attractions slowly vapourised, and previous heroes became today’s fools, some people just began to walk away from others.

  A new group of people formed in the big hall, who joined the lost souls of earlier, and they too began to circulate, and mingle, and attract and detract others.

  New relationships were formed: numbers, email addresses, Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp numbers were swapped.

  The old world order was turned upside down, and a brave new world was formed.

  The beautiful thing about it all was that, without saying much about his past successes, without having arrived in one of the most expensive cars in Scotland, and without anyone realising what he was or who he had become, some of the other pupils he recognised saw him, greeted him, and stopped to talk with him.

  Casual conversations were had.

  Stories were exchanged.

  Memories were shared.

  After an hour of just experiencing the Reunion for what it was, Stuart decided to do something positive.

  There was someone he wanted to meet.

  -------------------------

  The New Portobello High School

  At the Bar

  20.46

  Barry Quinn stood at the bar, waiting for his turn to get a fresh round of drinks for himself and two of his friends.

  Stupidly though, he couldn’t drink, because he’d decided to drive the Boxster after all.

  Irene had sworn there would be no sex for a month, and she was busy getting drunk with her usual friends, and several people Barry couldn’t remember at all, but whom Irene had recognised at once and for whom she’d immediately abandoned Barry.

  Not only did Irene now think that Barry was a prat of the largest magnitude but Barry also knew that she was right. He’d spent almost a grand hiring the Boxster for one day, thinking it would really set him apart from the others and get everyone saying, ‘Wow… is that Barry driving the Porsche? He must have done well!’. As it had transpired though, there were another two Boxsters in the car park, seven sports cars, and ten top-end elite cars.

  Everyone had had the same idea as him, and far from bragging abo
ut it at the bar, those who’d been stupid enough to rent a flash car, were now disowning them as fast as possible.

  What a bloody waste of money!

  On top of that, both of his friends were giving him a really hard time over the Boxster. The number of flash cars in the car park was the second biggest topic of conversation so far this evening, second only to the video of the man falling of the old school building’s roof. When Barry had admitted that one of the Boxsters was his, they’d almost wet themselves laughing. He’d only offered them a drink each to shut them up and give him a chance to escape.

  They were both good mates. They’d stayed friends since school, but Barry didn’t want to just hang out with them tonight. He wanted to ‘mingle’. To see who else was here.

  And to find Fiona Lewis.

  He also wanted to catch Paul Bentford before his wife did, and then keep an eye on him for the rest of the evening.

  While he waited for the drinks to come, Barry thought about the slow dance with Fiona all those years ago. He’d touched many breasts since then, but for some reason, he would never forget that fleeting second when he managed to touch Fiona’s nipple, before she’d pushed his hand away.

  From that moment forward, Dire Straits, Fiona Lewis and her right breast had been connected in time, and branded indelibly on his mind.

  Barry was just beginning to ponder, for the hundredth time that day, just what the possibility of another dance with her might be, and were it to happen, could there possibly, perhaps, be a chance of recreating that wonderful moment from all those years ago?

  “Barry Quinn?” A voice suddenly caught him unawares from behind, dragging him back from his daydream. “Is that you?”

  Barry turned, recognising the voice immediately, and feeling a surge of panic traverse its way up and down his spine. It was the voice of Peter Black. One of the people Barry least wanted to see this evening.

  As he spun around, there was a microsecond of confusion when Barry found no one behind him, but immediately realised that by looking down, - quite far – Peter Black was there, after all.

  He had hardly grown at all.

  The man was bloody tiny.

  “Peter?” Barry questioned himself aloud.

  “Aye, that’s me. Barry, I recognised you immediately! You haven’t changed at all!” Peter said, his eyes lighting up and seeming genuinely pleased to see Barry.

  “Neither have you. You’ve not changed either!” Barry replied. Meaning every word.

  Peter moved forward to give Barry a man hug, but Barry was quick enough to thrust out his hand and avert the impending disaster.

  “How’s life? What have you been up to?” Barry asked, dreading what he was about to hear. Peter had always made Barry feel like a piece of shit. Not by bullying him, really, but just by being so positive about his plans, and all the things he’d wanted to do with his life. Barry didn’t have any plans. And hadn’t done anything.

  “Not much, actually.” Peter replied. “Just surviving really, I suppose. And you?”

  Barry shrugged his shoulders back.

  “Me? Nothing, really. I still just live around the corner from the old secondary school. I’ve done the same job for the past twenty years. And I’m married with two kids.” Barry glanced across at the barman. Where were his drinks?

  “Two kids? Wow, that’s great.” Peter smiled. “I’m jealous. What’re their names?”

  “Gregor, and Derek. Two boys. Grown up now, one’s in third year at Edinburgh Uni, and the other is on a gap year, but going to St. Andrew’s next year.”

  “Both at Uni? That’s brilliant! You’ve done really well.”

  “Not just me,” Barry replied, smiling. “Me and Irene. She’s a great mum.”

  “What, Irene Gillespie?”

  “Yes. You remember her?”

  “Too right. She was one of the best catches in the year. Bloody hell, Barry. You’ve done brilliant. I’m really jealous.”

  “Why? How’s things gone for you?”

  Just then the drinks arrived.

  “Listen, can you hang on a second, I’ll just take these two drinks over to my friends, and I’ll be straight back.”

  A moment later, Barry Quinn returned to speak with Peter Black. Voluntarily.

  Ten minutes later, Barry began to realise, perhaps for the first time in his life, just how lucky he actually was.

  Unlike Peter, he’d never had testicular cancer.

  Unlike Peter, his wife had not run off with another man.

  Unlike Peter, who’d desperately wanted kids and couldn’t have any, Barry’d had two.

  And unlike Peter who’d got a high-pressure job in London, just as he’d always planned to, but who’d then hated almost every day of having to commute three hours a day in and out of London, and who was bored to tears with his work, Barry quite liked his job.

  Barry’s life, it was beginning to seem, was not so bad after all!

  -------------------------

  The New Portobello High School

  At the Bar

  21.05

  Fiona Lewis was surrounded by a quorum of giggling ‘girls’ in the large hall of the new modern secondary school. They were standing in front of a row of tables stretching down one length of the hall, all covered in memorabilia from their days at school, behind which were large boards covered in things stuck to them with pins. There was a lot to see, covering school concerts, sports events and achievements, school musicals put on over the years, news articles about the school, details on school trips abroad: photographs, posters, school prizes, news articles, programmes from the school musicals, large collective pictures of all the pupils in the different years of the school standing in rows, some standing on long wooden banks in the back row, others sitting down in the front row, cross-legged.

  There was a board covered with articles on ex-pupils and their achievements in the outside world since graduating: scientists, businessmen, teachers, professors, senior positions in Scottish government, one Member of Parliament.

  There was also one board covered with Obituaries of former pupils from their years. Fiona had found this a little morbid, but also very sad. It was constantly surrounded by groups of people chatting and pointing at the pictures.

  There were also tears from some who were surprised and shocked to find that an old friend was no longer with them and wouldn’t be coming this evening.

  Outside the school in the carpark, McKenzie had summoned a quick meeting of his team and the three members of the armed support team. As requested, apart from one, the rest were in civvies. Wishart had thought long and hard about whether there should be any detectable police presence there that evening, but had in the end decided – after talking with the organisers – that they didn’t want to alarm anyone unduly. They had agreed a compromise: one visible armed police officer, sitting outside the school in a police car belonging to the armed response team. He was still there, looking ominous, and not welcome at that point in this impromptu meeting.

  His presence there was mentioned at the start of the evening in the opening address from the stage in the hall, and had been excused as a necessary precaution for all public meetings taking place in Edinburgh at that time, due to the heightened state of security alert as a result of the Queen’s state visit.

  Everyone had bought it and seemed unconcerned. However, if the serial killer was amongst them, it was hoped that the armed presence would be a strong deterrent.

  “So, has anyone got anything? Any leads? Any thoughts?” he asked the team.

  To any passer-by, McKenzie knew they would appear just like a bunch of friends having a drink and smoke outside in the fresh air. They wouldn’t warrant a second glance.

  No one had anything. Yet.

  “Everyone’s talking about the video, but as you would expect, no one is aware of who it is or that there was a second death as well. So far, it’s an unfortunate suicide. Possibly a school pupil who chose the day to make a statement to everyone attending h
ere tonight. Or possibly just a coincidence.” Wishart said.

  “Okay, but keep digging. Try to find out casually if anyone had any thoughts about the best or worst teachers in 1993. Or before. Or even after. Any thoughts about Blake or Weir. Or even McRae would be good. Positives or negatives. Grudges, misdemeanours, anything that makes them stand out. And if so, any other names that could be connected with them.”

  McKenzie knew he was preaching to the converted, and eggs and sucking came to mind, so with no new thoughts coming forward, he was about to dismiss them, when Lynch spoke.

  “I was speaking with McLeish just before I left home tonight. We’re both still really bothered about something. Not only how did the killer get the body into the school, but how did the killer get them to the school. And the cross. You can’t just turn up outside the school in a car, offload two people, and a cross, and not raise any suspicions from passers-by. And even before you get the victims to the school, how do you stop others seeing them in the car?”

  “A blacked-out car, or a van?” Anderson suggested.

  “Yep, something like that. And when did the killer bring them? At the same time, or one at a time?”

  McKenzie nodded. He’d been thinking about this already.

  “Great thoughts. I’ve already got Dean looking at CCTV feeds. I’ll ask him to expand his search to vans or large cars acting suspiciously or caught repetitively in the neighbourhood of the school. The question is when should he look at? What time frame? Until we can narrow down a timeframe it’s probably too much to ask for. At the moment it’s only Dean, and he’s focussing on the area around Weir’s flat in Leith. This is madness. We need more people on this.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Okay, point noted. Something we need to progress further. For now, everyone get back in there. Mingle. Listen. Discover. Got it?”

  He was just about to clap his hands together, but thought better of it. Instead he smiled at them all.