Willy Thomson was going straight.
-------------------------
Sunday
00.15
Barry Quinn stood outside in the car park, staring at the Boxster.
How the hell was he going to get it home now?
He was drunk, and he couldn’t drive.
If he left it here, it would be stolen.
Or at least keyed by some ned.
He wanted to go home now, and escape.
Where Irene was, he had no idea. He hadn’t seen her in ages, and no doubt she’d gone off somewhere with Paul Bentford.
He really missed her.
And thinking of her with another man made him realise how much he actually loved her.
If only he hadn’t been such a prat.
If only…
“Barry? Where have you been? I was getting really worried about you!”
Barry turned around to face his wife, tears hovering on the edge of his eyelids.
He said nothing.
“What’s the matter? Are you drunk?” she asked, reaching out with her hand, and stroking his cheek lovingly.
“I saw you. With Paul.” He said.
“Who?”
“Paul Bentford. On the dance floor. I saw it all.”
“What are you talking about? You saw us on the dance floor… dancing? So what?”
“I saw him kiss you… ”
Irene was shaking her head slightly and frowning.
“What… ”
“On the cheek. And then you kissed him back. And then you disappeared off together somewhere.”
Irene’s face went blank. She looked confused. Blinked.
Then laughed.
“Barry, are you jealous? Do you think that I got off with Paul Bentford?”
She laughed again, and then stepped forward, kissing him solidly on the lips.
“You’re such a prat, Barry! Sometimes I can’t understand why I love you so much, but I do!”
“But I saw you kissing!”
“Idiot. He kissed me. Said how lucky I was to be with you. Said I looked lovely, and congratulated me on my life and how much we’d achieved together, and thanked me for the advice I gave him a long time ago to ask Sandra Roper out. He did. They went out. And got married. Thanks to me, apparently.”
“What? You never told me that?”
“Why should I have? It was never important.”
“So why did you kiss him then?”
“His wife is pregnant again. A big surprise. It’s going to be a girl, and he wanted to call it Irene. As a token of gratitude. So I kissed him… ON THE CHEEK. And then he took me over to meet Sandra and we had a drink together, me and Sandra and dished the dirt on our husbands and had a good old chin-wag!”
Barry stood silently, staring at his wife.
The tears began to roll down the side of his cheeks.
“I thought you’d gone off with Paul… ”
“Why? You idiot. I love you. Always have. Always will.”
She stepped forward and hugged him and then kissed him passionately.
Barry wrapped his arms around her, tightly, and pulled her close.
“I’m such a complete and utter prat,” he said, and then began to sob into her shoulder.
“I never argue with my husband, Barry. If you say you’re an idiot, then I must agree!”
-------------------------
Sunday
00.30
Marie McDonald and Stuart Nisbet stood on the edge of the dance-floor, talking.
About life.
About everything.
For two people who’d just met, they were getting on surprisingly well.
Stuart seemed very interested in learning as much about Marie as possible. He asked questions, and listened attentively to her answers. Then asked more questions.
Marie was an attractive woman. In her experience, when men started to express an interest in her, they generally spoke a lot about themselves.
In contrast, Stuart was in no hurry to talk about himself.
It was refreshing to meet a man, obviously capable, and strikingly good looking, who did not seem to want to impress himself upon her at all.
Stuart also had the knack of getting her to talk about things that she didn’t want to discuss.
He was able to dig, without her feeling uncomfortable.
Soon, against all her intentions for this evening, she was talking about her children and her fundraising activities.
At one point, she got so passionate and worked up about the challenges she faced in caring for her little ones, that she began to cry.
Stuart had offered her a fresh handkerchief to wipe away her tears.
Who did that anymore?
Seriously, who was this guy?
With about thirty minutes to go before the evening was due to draw to a close, the DJ started to play slow dances.
It happened very naturally, and without any awkwardness.
Stuart smiled at her, gestured to the dance floor with his left hand, and stepped slightly to the side, as if to let her go past, should she accept.
Without thinking about it, she smiled back, and walked onto the dance floor, gently scooping up his hand in hers as she went.
He held her close.
Not just for one dance, but two.
Neither person seemed in a hurry to go anywhere.
Chapter 22
Somewhere
Sunday
00.35
Mark McRae fell to the floor, landing heavily on his chest, and banging his head badly. He immediately knew that his scalp had split and was bleeding, but Mark had other problems.
The Indian had just turned up the power on the cattle prod and hit him with it on its maximum setting.
A fire was burning down his right side, leaving him in excruciating agony. For a moment Mark passed out, all his senses seeming to stop.
When they returned, it was with a vengeance.
He was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling.
It was dark, but his blindfold had been removed.
He tried to move his hands, but found them bound tightly to some heavy objects on either side of his body. Likewise, his feet were also similarly immobilised, with the ropes around his ankles cutting sharply into his skin.
It took him a moment to realise it, but the gag from his mouth had been removed.
He tried to move his jaw, but found it difficult to do.
Neither was he able to speak, even though he tried.
His mouth was so dry, no sound came out.
As the clouds of unconsciousness lifted, the darkness around him became more manageable and he was slowly able to make out his surroundings.
“Recognise the place?” the Indian asked, stepping forward from somewhere behind him, and now towering directly above Mark’s head.
Mark’s eye started to dart around the room, a feeling of dread welling up within him.
The room was empty now, with all the tables and chairs removed, except for a few solid structures which were rooted to the floor, and to which he was now pinioned and spread-eagled on the ground.
The strenuous climb which he’d been subjected to, struggling up four flights of stairs, blindfolded, exhausted, and in pain, now also made perfect sense.
Mark closed his eyes and remembered one of the last times he’d been here before. Standing in front of a class-room full of students, congratulating them on their exam marks and wishing them well at university.
For the first time in days, Mark knew exactly where he was.
-------------------------
Sunday
00.45
McKenzie had gathered everyone together at the back of the hall.
The School Reunion Ball was just about to finish, but before it did, he wanted to have a status check with everyone on duty.
No one had anything much to say or report, except that everyone in the hall and the bar seemed to be having a wonderful time.
&nbs
p; “Keep an eye out for Willy Thomson. Most of you know him, and he’s here this evening. He’s the only concern I’ve had so far.” McKenzie offered, before instructing them all to keep extra vigilant until everyone was off the premises.
Nothing had happened yet, but that wasn’t to say something bad would happen in the next hour.
“One last thing, before you go. I’ve sent you all a photo of one of the boards in the hall, which shows photos of some of the pupils and staff who’ve died and didn’t make it tonight. If you didn’t see the message yet, please look now, and then check the board, and if you can, in the remaining time or with your friends or contacts later, try to find out what you can about the causes of death for those where it’s not listed on the board? Just in case there’s anything significant there.”
-------------------------
Sunday
01.00
Sofia Waterson climbed slowly back onto the stage, this time being helped by her husband.
The music had stopped and the lights had gone up.
The fun was coming to an end.
“I’m drunk!” Sofia announced to the hall, which was now full of everyone who had come this evening.
“I’m drunk. I’ve had a wonderful time. I hope you have too!” she laughed aloud, and everyone replied immediately with a raucous roar of ‘Yes!’
“Let’s do this again, shall we? In ten years?” she asked.
“YESSSSS!” was the answer.
“Okay, I’m not going to make a big speech. But seriously, it’s been great seeing everyone here tonight. Portobello High is a brilliant school. I think we all miss it. I’m very proud I came here, and I always will be! So, on behalf of all of us, I want to say thanks to all the teachers we ever had, and to everyone who helped get us through the school, who cared for us, and helped us start our lives.”
There were now tears in her eyes, and she was obviously struggling with her words.
“Okay, enough. There’s going to be one more song, and then we’re going to ring the school bell for the last time. After that, and we’re getting kicked out. Get home safe and sound. AND STAY IN TOUCH!”
She waived to everyone, then almost tripped coming down the stairs from the stage.
The lights dimmed a little, and incredibly RunRig came back on stage.
They picked up their instruments and slowly began to play ‘For Auld Lang Syne’.
A chill went through the hall. An emotional moment that touched everyone that was there.
The ex-pupils of Portobello High School joined hands, began to dance and to sing, and to a man and woman, by the time the song came to an end, there was not a single dry eye in the hall.
The hugs, the kisses, the tears, and the ‘I love you’s’ lasted another thirty minutes, but slowly the hall emptied out and the Reunion came to an end.
Standing outside in the car park, small groups of ex-pupils lingered and clung on, not wanting to go home.
Some not remembering where home was.
-------------------------
Saturday
01.00 a.m.
Mark’s eyes opened again. He must have fainted with the pain, or the dehydration. Or both. Just for a second, a fleeting second, he wondered if the Indian had left, but as soon as he moved his head to look for him, the voice spoke.
“I’m still here. And we’re almost ready.” It said.
“First, I’m going to give you a little drink of water. I think you need it.”
Mark couldn’t believe his ears. If the Indian cared enough to give him a drink, perhaps there was still hope.
He felt a hand at the back of his head, lifting it up, raising it towards a plastic cup which had appeared in front of his face.
“Drink. Very slowly. You need to lubricate your throat. It might hurt.”
Mark tried to take a sip, but most of the first mouthful just ran out down his chin.
It had nowhere to go.
“Slowly.” The Indian said. “Let the first few mouthfuls sit in your mouth and be absorbed.”
Mark obeyed.
It took a few moments, but then Mark felt the muscles in his neck slowly beginning to respond, and with incredible relief he felt the cold water beginning to trickle down the back of his mouth and down his throat.
The Indian urged him to drink some more, and then warned, “Do not attempt to talk or scream. If you do, I will cover your mouth and put the cattle prod on your testicles. I’ll make sure no one hears you scream. Do you understand?”
Mark nodded.
Then drank some more.
Slowly.
He coughed a few times involuntarily, but the amazing, wonderful thing was, he could!
The Indian seemed pleased.
“Good. Now I need to fix your tooth. Open wide.”
Mark was confused. He felt a momentary surge of panic.
“What tooth?”
The Indian raised the cattle prod in front of his face, and Mark immediately froze.
“Open your mouth. I’m going to put in a frame to keep your cheeks away from the tooth.”
For a moment Mark hesitated. What was going on?
Then he saw the cattle prod in front of him again, and felt it prod against his nether regions.
He immediately opened his jaw as wide as it would go.
“Good boy.” The Indian said, and quickly pushed a cold metal frame inside his mouth.
It felt massive.
Nothing like any dentist had ever used before.
Mark tried to shake his head.
“Ah, good point. I need to keep your head still, so you don’t hurt yourself.” The Indian laughed. “I forgot. How stupid of me.”
Mark felt something being placed across his forehead.
A leather or plastic belt?
The Indian was reaching behind his head, fiddling with something.
Slowly the belt began to tighten, and Mark felt his head pulled backwards, forcing him back on to the floor, and a frame of some sort that cut into the back of his neck. Mark tried to move his head, but found he couldn’t.
He tried to speak, forgetting about the cattle prod, but found that now he could only make childish sounds.
“Last warning, Mr McRae. Next time you make a sound, I’ll blow your balls off!”
Mark wanted to scream. The panic was becoming like a blinding white light which clouded his vision, and threatened to drive him insane.
His hands and arms were beginning to shake. If he’d had enough fluids in him he’d no doubt have wet himself, but there was nothing left within him to come out.
“We’re almost there, now.” The Indian whispered, close to his ear.
“First, I’ll just adjust this so I can get better access… ”
Mark felt the Indian’s cold fingers on the side of his cheeks - it felt like he was wearing rubber gloves - then he felt a weird vibration as the contraption in his mouth seemed to expand, forcing his jaw open wider.
“Aahhhh… ,” Mark uttered, involuntarily. It hurt like hell.
Somewhere behind his head, Mark heard the Indian fiddling with something, then a sigh, an exhaling of air.
“Done. Now we’re ready.” The Indian informed him through the pain.
“Ah… sorry, apart from one thing.”
The Indian picked something up from the floor and then came around to the front of Mark from behind. He knelt on the floor above Mark’s prostrate body, leant across toward him, and then started to write something on Mark’s forehead with a soft pen.
Rocking backwards on to his heels, the man in the Indian mask surveyed his handy work and nodded.
“Good. I think that’s clear enough.”
The Indian laughed.
“Now, it’s time,” he nodded. “Oh, but, first, perhaps you want to know what I wrote on your head?”
Mark blinked.
The Indian leant forward and whispered into Mark’s left ear.
“It says, ‘Remember me?’ ”
-----------
----
Having uttered the words, the Indian sat back and studied Mark’s eyes for recognition of what he’d just said.
Sure enough, it only took a few seconds.
As the man who was pinned on the floor in front of him and at his mercy, realised the meaning of the words, the blood drained from his face, and in spite of the metal contraption in his mouth, he managed to scream for the very first, and last, time.
The look of terror on Mark McRae’s face instantly made all the preparation for this worthwhile.
The Indian smiled.
Then he removed the tops from the two glass bottles on the floor beside him and picked them.
Laughing aloud, the Indian leant forward and began to simultaneously pour the contents of both bottles down the back of Mark McRae’s throat.
End of Book One
To continue with the story and find out the answer to the following questions, please now download Book Two.
In Book Two, you will find answers to the following questions:
1: Who is(are) the killer(s)?
2: What is the big twist in the story that will make you catch your breath and keep you up all night?
3: Who is next to die?
4: Which popular character from ‘I Spy, I Saw Her Die’ comes back to help save the day?
5: Does McKenzie live or die?
Oops, I almost gave it away…
To discover what happens next, read Book Two!
If you have any comments, please contact the author at:- [email protected]
To connect with Ian C.P. Irvine on Twitter, connect with Ian at @IancpIrvine
To keep up to date with other news, events and ebook releases, please visit the website at: www.iancpirvine.com or http://www.free-ebook.co.uk/
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