‘Sorry, I don‘t mean to offend. Are you from Glasgow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, but what I meant was that he was acting like a… big man.’ Her line of sight is aimed at the coffee, but I’m certain she sees nothing of the external world. ‘He used to be so nice and quiet and thoughtful. A little lacking in confidence. But you know, when I think about it, after the hols he was very different. Almost like he just didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care what people thought of him.’
I say nothing. Let her fill the silence and something vital might slip out.
‘Bastard.’
So much for that theory then. I look at my watch.
‘Sorry. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ I stand up.
‘Not at all.’ She stands too.
‘I’ll just…’ I point to the door.
‘Okay.’ She smiles then a pair of contrasting thoughts twists in her eyes. ‘I probably shouldn’t do this. But fuck it. He needs to get his key back sometime. Might as well be a relative that gets it.’ She lifts a set of keys from her satchel and removes one. ‘Here. Make sure you tell him I gave it to you and that he can have it back. Forever.’ Her chin moves up in defiance.
‘And tell him I’m keeping the Bob Marley CD.’
McCall’s room is about the same size as Sue’s, his a good deal tidier though. But a lot colder. I cross my arms and try to keep some heat within my jacket. This room is cold and not just temperature-wise. He has a bed against one wall; the duvet cover is a plain dark green, there are three dining room chairs dotted about, a bookcase and a tall wardrobe against the far wall. That’s it, apart from a TV/DVD combo mounted on a wall bracket.
I approach the bookcase for ideas of what kind of person McCall is in his private life. There are textbooks, a few fantasy novels, a book on Stalingrad and a couple of SAS-type thrillers. The bottom shelf holds all his movies; a couple of football films; a couple of standard horror movies and the expected sci-fi. Nothing remarkable here. Just like any young man his age. Mind you, if he is a good Catholic boy, he must have a stash of wank mags somewhere. That would show any signs of deviance. I look under the mattress and there they are in all their lurid splendour. Must be about half a dozen. I have a quick look, for research purposes. Just the usual big tits and neatly shaven pussies. None of them are very recent, the dates on the front are all from the last century. Okay, so it wasn’t that long ago. Maybe he is too shy to buy them for himself and inherited them all from a pal.
A red light is winking in the corner. There’s a bedside cabinet here, bearing a lamp, an alarm clock and a mobile phone charger. There’s a drawer underneath. I slide it open to find that the drawer is empty. Not a thing. Is that not unusual? If I was staying in a room like this what would I keep in this drawer? Keys and wallet. He’ll take those with him. Toiletries, a packet of condoms (unopened, probably), a favourite book. There must be all sorts of things that people like to keep close beside them while they sleep. Trusted objects that they reach out for in the morning to ground them in the coming day. But this guy has nothing.
All this thinking is tiring me out. I run my hands across my head. I could just have a wee lie down while I wait for McCall. Might as well get under the duvet, ’cos it’s freezing in here.
A light blazes. Too close. Step back from it. There are more of them. Throwing light into the dark room, but there are corners where no light could reach. Corners with low moaning sounds and the sound of nails being pulled slowly across the hard floor. Stay near the light.
The lights surround a mirror. He looks into it and sees nothing, save for the dark ocean of space behind him. Only when he pulls the mask from the drawer and places that over his face does anything reflect. Light beams catch the white of the mask and throw an image on to the glass.
Now he can see his eyes. They look like the eyes of someone he knows, a distant acquaintance perhaps? Without the usual flesh and hair surrounding them… without a frame of reference… it is difficult to tell who they belong to.
The scalpel knows its way, its blade drawn to the flesh like a mosquito to the pale, sweet skin of a child. It knows to cut just enough to release a drop. A drop that will glide down the side of the nose, follow the swell of nostril and the downward curve of lip. It will reach the last part of its voyage — the chin — and pause for an eternity… a moment. From there will it drop into… darkness? Into a universe of space and dust and create its own sun. Or will it have shed too much of itself on the journey, leaving a pale line in its passing, a trail of torment and glory? Perhaps it will be too weak and cling to the skin, reluctant to leave its host.
No matter. It has been shed. There will be more.
The suffering is not over yet. Joy snaps his head up. Eyes again meet eyes. Fingers find a nipple and twist and pull at the pin piercing it. Just enough to register pain, just enough not to pull it right off. He ignores the insistent flesh that throbs in his groin. He can’t touch it again, that would mean losing control. He looks down at the tight, purple flesh, at the tear of semen glistening from the eye-shaped hole. No. He mustn’t. No release until it was over. Not long now. He hooks a finger under the crown of his penis and slides it down its underside. Enough, a voice barks. Enough.
He pulls his hands away and examines them as if they belong to someone else. They are square-shaped and strong and taper into slender wrists. The skin is a scoured pink, pink as a fresh steak. Even at a microscopic level it would be difficult to pick up any dirt, but still he scrubs. Just in case. His fingernails are a different story. No matter how much he scrubs them there is always some dirt that remains, as a reminder. They are forever filling up with dirt, but he likes that, the squeeze of loam as it presses in and lifts the nail from its bed. The smell of the earth and compost. Decay and renewal. Autumn and spring. Sin and rebirth.
The Crucifixion and the Ascension.
Chapter 27
‘James! James!’
Who the fuck is James and who the fuck is shouting like that? My head. Fucking hell. I feel like shit. I’ve just had the worst nightmare since the repeat one I used to get at the seminary: that I was having sex with Sister Mary.
Dear Therapist, figure that one out.
My mouth tastes of metal, like somebody layered my tongue with old pennies. I sit up and lean against the headboard. Oh my head. Hurts. I can barely open my eyes. What a dream.
An odour that is a combination of coffee and vomit coats the hairs of my nostrils. I place my hands to the side to push myself back and up. What the hell is that? My left hand falls on to a patch of wetness, I instantly recoil as my brain registers what the stuff is and I lose my balance and pitch face first into my own puke. Fuck!
Can’t remember being sick. All I can remember is the dream. The voice scraping through my mind. I sit back up and pull my knees up to my chest and hug myself. This must be how women feel when they have been raped. That voice had complete power over me. I was his puppet. I would have done anything he asked me. My legs and arms felt like they belonged to someone else. I tried to open my mouth and shout for help, but it was like a pair of fingers was stuck down my throat compressing my larynx so that no noise would issue from it. Every hair on my body was on full alert.
His hands were rough. Working hands. His fingers trailed across my forehead and down the side of my face. From one nipple to the next they arched, giving each a painful twist, then they slowly followed the line of hairs that link up with my pubes. There he stopped and twisted his fingers to gather some hair. With a heave he pulled some out. A scream stuck in my throat and echoed in my ears. The soft flesh felt as if someone had poured boiling wax on it.
Blood gorged in my groin, and to my utter shame and horror I realised I was aroused. Fed by fear, my prick pulsed for a touch.
He knew the effect this was having on me. The betrayal my body was dealing me. I couldn’t see a face, but I knew he smiled. A smile bright with the need to be cruel.
His face was born from shadow; first the
tip of his nose appeared, then the lips, cheekbones, lashes and then eyes. It was McCall. No, it was Connelly. But the part of my brain that hadn’t shrunk in fear registered something. Like an itch it persisted. Something wasn’t quite right about what I was seeing. Something about the eyes.
A voice sounded far in the distance. It came closer and closer. The words were becoming more intelligible. The voice was mine. I was telling myself to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe, I repeated time and time again. My chest rose in an anxious search for oxygen. None came in. I tried again. Something soft was over my face. Something cool to touch and cushioned. A pillow? I pulled it off and tried to fill my lungs. Nothing. Adrenalin surged. Pins and needles of energy pricked at the entire surface area of my skin. My hands moved inches to the side before they were blocked. I lifted them up and again the same thing. I was in a box. A long thin box. And there… was… no air.
Nostrils and lungs expanded, craving air. The darkness was total.
My fingers tore at the roof. Twisting, I kicked at the walls, the floor, the roof. There was no give. Breathe. I had to breathe.
Suddenly the face appeared again. He pressed his lips against mine and his tongue probed. It slid across my teeth and met my own tongue. I wanted to send my conscious mind away. I wanted to fold it in deepest, darkest velvet and protect it from the sights and sounds I was experiencing. My flesh shrunk from his, shrunk as it would from ice, without conscious thought.
Then pain bloomed in my forehead. A ring of spikes. My hands would have shot up to nurse but they were pierced themselves. My fingers splaying out, tendons tight in agony. Then a blade pierced my side, scraping the bottom rib as my weak flesh welcomed its steel. This new pain barely registered in the kaleidoscope that sparked in my brain.
Insistent among the jumble of fears is my struggle for breath. Can’t breathe. I’m going to die. Something is lodged in my throat. It tickles. A half-cough, half-retch forces it on to my lips. I can feel the tiny, hard spine of a feather. I spit it out.
Just as quickly as it started, it stopped.
No pain, no panic.
Nothing.
‘James! James!’ A door was being knocked somewhere. Who the fuck was James?
‘James, are you all right? James open the door.’
James. That’s the name I gave to Sue downstairs.
‘Sue,’ I croak. ‘Sue,’ louder now. ‘I’ll just be with you.’ Avoiding the pool of puke on the floor I make for the door and open it.
‘James. Are you okay?’ Sue’s face is white and her eyes large with worry. ‘I didn’t know what was happening, what to do…’ she pulled her long hair back from her face. ‘I heard some shouting and… your face… the smell. Have you been sick?’
‘Eh?’ I manage.
‘The noise. The screams coming from this flat…’ she steps into the room slowly and looks around her, like a deer approaching the scar of a road through her forest. ‘It sounded like the sound effects department of a horror movie. Like somebody was being murdered.’
‘I, eh…’ My mind is starting to settle back into the here and now. ‘As you can see, there are no dead bodies.’ With a smile on the highest setting I can manage, I indicate the floor around me with open palms.
‘A dream… a godawful dream.’ I slump to the floor like I’m a puppet and my strings have just been cut. I can’t shake the feeling of being violated. I want to scrape every inch of my skin off with a cheese grater. I want to bathe in bleach.
Sue is now at the door and I don’t want her to leave. I’d do anything for her not to leave. Her hand is poised over her throat. Something else is being displayed on the theatre of her face. Pity, I can’t handle.
‘What’s that?’ Sue asks and steps towards me, her hand out-stretched. She pulls something from the corner of my mouth and holds it out to me. On the surface of her palm, about the size of a staple, lies a single, white feather.
Chapter 28
Allessandra is sent on another errand by Campbell. If the convent isn’t able to shed any light on McBain’s early days as a psycho killer, perhaps the seminary can?
Allessandra is certain that there is plenty that Mother Superior is not saying. She is equally certain that she doesn’t want to hear it.
‘What kind of a guy flunks priest-training college?’ Peters demands at that morning’s meeting in the squad room.
‘Someone who realises that a life without women is a living death,’ answers Daryl Drain.
‘Naw,’ says Harkness, ‘life without women would be heaven, where do I sign up for the priesthood?’
‘Too late,’ Allessandra says. ‘You’re totally fucked.’
While entering the banter Allessandra asks herself for the millionth time why she hasn’t told Campbell about McBain faking the wounds of Christ on his hands. And why did she go along with Daryl Drain when he went to help McBain with some information?
She’s getting in too deep here.
Because he is a good man, she answers herself. And that’s not just because he reminds her of her father. The evidence is there. Hadn’t he looked after her since she joined the team? Apart from the whole convent list thing of course, he had made her feel welcome. Made her feel like one of the boys. You just have to look at his eyes to know he isn’t a killer. There is too much sadness in there. People with that kind of loneliness in their lives don’t hurt other people. They save the worst for themselves.
Wouldn’t they?
Talking of her father, what would he do? Would he speak to the powers-that-be and bring McBain in? Or would he help his colleague?
Allessandra makes her decision, mentally giving herself the sign of the cross and prays that her father is looking down on her with a smile.
‘Sir, should I be going to speak to these people on my own?’ Allessandra asks Campbell.
‘Good experience for you,’ he answers. ‘And in case you missed it, we are a tad low on staff. You are just gathering information at this point. If we need a statement taken, you can go back with a pal another time.’
Allessandra studies her feet to conceal her irritation. What a patronising prick.
The man who greets her at the door of the seminary could have doubled as a lamppost in his spare time. All he needs is a big, powerful, hat-sized bulb. Long fingers stretch out towards Allessandra in the offer of a handshake.
‘Father Joseph,’ he introduces himself with a lop-sided smile and a voice that should be reading the nine o’clock news. Looking up at his face Allessandra is struck by a series of sharp points, Adam’s apple, chin and nose.
‘Follow me,’ Father Joseph says.
The walls of the room she is led in to are lined with oak panels and in the middle of the room sits a long table, flanked by high-backed chairs, all of a similar forbidding tone. A large crucifix hangs on the far wall.
All we need is a welcome mat, a pair of slippers and some Gregorian chants in the background, thought Allessandra, and I will feel right at home. Not.
‘You want to know about Ray?’ Father Joseph folds his long frame on to a chair and rubs his head. It is bald apart from a few strands of silvery hair. The effect is as if he had walked through a cloud of dandelion seeds and a handful had stuck.
‘Were you here when he was a student?’
A nod. ‘I remember him well. And not unfondly.’
Unfondly? Is that even a word, thought Allessandra? She decided to leave her notepad in her pocket and listen to the man talk.
‘He was a thoughtful boy. A good student; nothing remarkable. Would have made a good priest.’
‘Why do you think he didn’t?’
‘Most of the boys at some time in their stay here rebel a little. Just because they wish to join a religious order doesn’t stop their bodies from producing hormones. They take up with a girl, go for drinks, listen to rock music. Ray was no different.’ He crossed his legs and held his hands on his lap. ‘Why he didn’t become a priest? I don’t know. We do have a number of… how shall we put it
? Renegades? Some boys just come to the realisation that a life of holy orders is not for them.’ His wide, bony shoulders move in a shrug. ‘Perhaps Ray was one of them?’
Allessandra suddenly feels the weight of her inexperience. What else should she be asking? How can she get this man to open up and help her? Is DI McBain the wrong man, as she hopes he is? Or is he a sick bastard who needs to be put away for the rest of his natural?
Perhaps sensing her uncertainty the priest helps her out. ‘Ray was slightly unusual in that he came here from an orphanage run by the Church. We worried at the time that moving from one religious institution to another should not be his path. And so it turned out, I’m afraid.’
Watching this big man speak, Allessandra is struck by insight. This man cares about the men under his care. He would have been a good role model for the young Ray.
‘Why did you think moving from the convent to here might not have worked?’
‘To be more effective as a priest one should have some experience of family life. Ray had none. The Church might have become more of a dependency for Ray than was healthy for him.’
Allessandra considers the young man Ray McBain might have been. No parents or siblings. Any friends would be left behind in Bethlehem House. Becoming a priest would have been the only link he had to security. And from what Father Joseph was saying, they didn’t really want him.
‘Don’t get me wrong, DC Rossi. We didn’t turn Ray away without good reason. There was an incident,’ his great head slumps in sadness, ‘Ray injured his best friend. Grievously. He went completely berserk and later offered no explanation. He left us with no choice.’
Chapter 29
I’m in the car, bulleting up the M74, almost back in Glasgow. There’s no place like home when you are feeling like the inflow to a sewage works. Except I can’t go home.
As I near Glasgow I consider where to go. Kenny’s flat is out. McCall knew who I was. How did he know? Had he been keeping tabs on me? If so, he must not only know what I look like, but where I was staying. Does that mean he knows Kenny as well? Shit. That might mean he saw Theresa coming and going. And then there’s Daryl. I can’t go to him. His job would be on the line. It’ll have to be Kenny.
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