Dark Angels

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Dark Angels Page 9

by Grace Monroe


  Escape was all that I had in mind. I needed something more than I could get from my Harley. Heading for Arthur’s Seat, I was sure to find solace. Unfortunately, I didn’t find good sense and the black saloon car behind me with tinted windows was nothing but another bit of traffic to me.

  The car was of the same mind, but the driver was obviously too taken with the sight of Holyrood Palace to pay attention to the road. His wheels–I assumed he was male as they cause ninety-five per cent of accidents–just missed my back tyre.

  Fat drops of rain fell on my visor as the heavens poured. I opened up my throttle and increased my speed. I had to shift to lose that idiot. The rain came down faster. The rumble of thunder travelled over the River Forth as I climbed Arthur’s Seat.

  Dark and stormy, I continued to climb higher. Puddles of water lay on the road, the sprayback on the engine made Awesome sluggish.

  The black saloon caught up with me as we reached Dunsappie Loch. Every sinew in my arms was tight as I struggled with the conditions. The car moved out to overtake on the single track, one-way road. I tried to facilitate his manoeuvre but I wasn’t fast enough. His bumper caught my exhaust and shunted Awesome across the road. The tyre caught the kerb and I spun over the handlebars as the first sheet of lightning cracked the sky.

  The thick leather of my jacket protected me as I skidded along the road. I stopped, face down in a puddle of muddy water. The water, mingling with my blood, rose up my nose. Coughing, I tried to lift my head up. At speed, the car reversed back towards me, its tyres spewing muddy water over me in a deluge.

  Too late I recognised the vehicle. I had last seen it outside Lord Arbuthnot’s house. The storm raged on, even the ducks took refuge in the reeds at the edge of the pond. The grumbling thunder masked the sound of his footsteps.

  Mercifully, blackness descended shortly after I received the first blow.

  TWELVE

  Fortunately, the drugs clouded my consciousness. Foolishly, I welcomed sleep. Unconscious, the nightmare truly began.

  Inner turmoil makes for restless slumber. The hand on my shoulder was firm but friendly. Fishy shook me awake.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  His blue eyes crinkled with laughter. Relief flooded through me. I was going to recover, or else Fishy would look worried rather than bemused.

  My eyes strained to adjust to the light. I blinked and blinked, but I appeared to have brought a strange apparition back with me from my dream state. No matter how many times I opened and shut my eyes, the bizarre man at the foot of my bed didn’t move.

  Red tartan trews emphasised his elegant limbs–dancer’s legs once upon a time I’d guess. Black patent shoes, polished to within an inch of their life. No greater contrast could have been found to my scuffed black courts, lying discarded in the corner. Placing his hat on the chair, the man removed his black velvet jacket. I pushed myself hard against the pillows as he began to amble towards me.

  Suspicion must have shown in my eyes, as he began to speak softly like someone singing a lullaby.

  ‘Hush now, child. Kailash has sent me to care for you.’

  That was a frightening prospect on its own. She was paid to hurt people–it was her job. And right now I didn’t know who had sent my attacker. For all I knew it could have been Kailash herself. One of the few things I had been able to stammer at Fishy when he found me, was that he was to tell no one, until I had figured out who had sent my baseball bat message.

  I was angry at him for betraying my confidence, for not protecting me better. Maybe the responsibility of caring for me was too much. Perhaps I should have gone to hospital, but official police involvement was not the wisest course of action. I had made too many enemies, and I was starting to get as bad as Jack Deans with conspiracy theories. I didn’t know who to trust.

  Fishy stood staring at the doorway eyes protesting his blamelessness. I broke contact with him; he would be dealt with later.

  ‘You’re in terrible shape, Brodie,’ Fishy began huffily. ‘You need a doctor or you need a miracle–he’s the best you’ve got.’

  I raised my fuck you finger at him but he didn’t move. The man we were referring to did–gently pushing my hand into a ball to remove the offending gesture.

  ‘I’m Malcolm.’ He had been filling his eyes on me since I had noticed him–and for God knows how long before that. As he introduced himself, his liver-spotted, manicured hands gave me a tiny white pill and a glass of tepid water. Suspicion must have shown in my eyes.

  ‘Do I scare you?’ Malcolm asked. Never one to admit weakness I shook my head.

  ‘Well, then open your mouth…it’s only lady’s slipper.’

  As I still looked confused, Malcolm continued with his explanation.

  ‘A Native American remedy.’

  ‘For?’

  ‘Calming your nerves, stopping you greetin’. It’s an extract boiled from the roots. It’s good stuff.’ He failed to tell me it was also superior to opium in inducing sleep.

  I hadn’t had the energy to cry. Yet. His little tablet must be to stop the tears that would surely come once I thought about what had just happened to me.

  Deftly he placed the pill under my tongue.

  ‘Keep it there, and let it melt.’

  Malcolm bent down and picked up a battered brown leather physician’s case.

  ‘You’re the strangest looking doctor I’ve ever seen.’ I blurted it out.

  Malcolm hesitated for a moment, then sat down beside me. He looked at my face, at the bruises and the swelling and the blood, and I saw a change come over his face.

  ‘You may be right, Brodie McLennan. But by name and by bloodline, I am related to a healing tradition that stretches back a thousand years.’

  I looked at him expectantly.

  ‘My family name is Beaton and our history was as bone-setters and healers. Not many options for me–there weren’t many chances for…Well, in Inverness in the sixties I was what they called a pansy. It wasn’t the most swinging of places then. Or now.’

  Clearing his throat he added: ‘I was maybe a wee bitty obvious.’

  From his get-up, this didn’t come as a huge shock, but I kept my tongue silent as distant pain flickered over Malcolm’s face.

  ‘I tuned in, dropped out and headed for San Francisco. Learned about Native American remedies. I found people who appreciated my skills–and who did not denounce my…personal habits.’

  ‘How did you meet Kailash?’ I asked.

  ‘Ordinarily, I never talk about her. People…’ Malcolm appeared to be searching for the correct word, ‘misunderstand.’

  Organising himself in silence, he placed ointments and unguents on the bedside table. Outlandish aromas from his pots and potions quickly filled the room.

  ‘Please? I’d like to understand her…’

  Sensing he would do anything for Kailash, I deliberately hit his hot buttons.

  ‘If you want to protect Kailash, Malcolm, if you want to keep her out of jail, then give me your help. The more I know Kailash, the better able I am to defend her.’

  It was enough. I had played my part well. Without stopping to catch his breath, he launched into their history.

  ‘When I met her, in the eighties, in Amsterdam, she was just a wee slip of a thing. Doing the only thing she could to make ends meet.’

  Education had obviously never been part of her curriculum, but I refused to accept that the only escape route for a young girl was prostitution. I thought it wisest not to voice my opinion.

  ‘Initially, she was the injured party in rich men’s sadistic sex games. That’s how we met. I used to patch the girls up and send them out again. Kailash is a smart one. As soon as she realised a certain type of man paid more to be hurt, then she found she had a talent for it.

  ‘Freud said that the sexual history of an individual begins at birth, and sexual pleasure in the beginning has no aim or object. The only way it can get an object of desire is through experience. This is complex and
it can go wrong.

  ‘With all the clients in Kailash’s place in Amsterdam, that process had most definitely gone wrong. Successful businessmen who crave humiliation and pain.’

  He paused–presumably running a few scenarios through his memory bank.

  ‘There are older ladies I’ve worked with who earn a small fortune dressing men as babies and changing their nappies.’

  ‘I can’t understand why the women do it,’ I interrupted.

  ‘For the money, lassie. So what if they have to change shitty nappies? They’d be doing the same thing working as a carer in an old folk’s home–only there they’d get minimum wage. Not every woman has the opportunities you have.’

  Malcolm turned from me to prepare ointments, leaving me to think about my senior partner. Roddie Buchanan’s predilection was harder for me to figure out. Where did he come up with the notion of having his testicles injected so that they swelled to the size of small melons? How did he explain that to his wife? I assumed that part of his thrill was the excitement of getting caught.

  The drug was taking effect; my mind was fuzzy. It was getting harder to distinguish between reality and the dream state. I tried to fight Malcolm as he removed my nightdress, but the drug had lowered my inhibitions. A strong woody scent filled my nostrils as he applied warm oil. Vaguely aware that Fishy was in the room, I felt protected rather than horrified by the presence of my friend.

  ‘Black birch oil…its astringent properties will help her wounds heal.’

  Malcolm’s voice was soft and low as he spoke to Fishy. His experienced hands kneaded the oil deep into my flesh and I felt myself drifting in and out of consciousness.

  ‘What do you want the vodka for?’

  Fishy was keeping a watchful eye on Malcolm.

  ‘Have you warmed it?’ queried the older man. His voice had changed to brusque and efficient. ‘Vodka is a spirit I use, because it is readily available, to help me make a poultice. Do you see these lesions on her back?’

  I could not hear Fishy’s reply. I felt as if I was floating away from them both.

  ‘These wounds were not caused by a baseball bat. When you picked her up, did you see a thin metal bar or a baton lying around?’

  I still could not hear Fishy.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Malcolm in response to a comment I had not heard. ‘These red marks across her back could have been caused by a walking cane.’

  Drifting into my nightmare world, I fought hard to stay awake but the drug overwhelmed me. Moses Tierney interlinked with my absent father, tormentors together, scornful of my efforts. There was something I wasn’t seeing. I have always abhorred stupidity–particularly my own–but, without realising it, Malcolm’s intention to make me sleep while my body healed plunged me into my own personal hell.

  I was past caring when he applied the leeches to my swellings. Somehow he managed to convince Fishy that standard medical practitioners were once again using them. They didn’t hurt as he positioned them on my body to release their natural anaesthetic. Leeches, Malcolm assured Fishy, would also release a powerful antibiotic into my bloodstream. When they were satiated with my blood, they dropped off naturally and the inflammation was reduced.

  Uncomfortably, I drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure of my surroundings and the faces that came to see me. By the time Jack Deans turned up, white plate in hand, stacked with pancakes, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Mother Teresa doing the dusting.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘How’s Sleeping Beauty?’ he asked, as if we’d been having a perfectly ordinary chat seconds earlier. The plate that he put down clanged off the bedside cabinet as I stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Ambulance chasing now, Jack? You’re sinking lower than even I predicted.’

  ‘You’ve been out for three days, Brodie. Fishy had to go to work…so I offered to babysit. Looks like it’s going to be a thankless task.’ Jack Deans busied himself, straightening my bedclothes as if the situation was a perfectly normal one.

  ‘Where’s Malcolm?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s just left. I had to throw him out the door–poor old sod’s been with you the whole time. Now it’s my turn–I’ll attend to your every need. Cups of tea, bowls of soup, commode, bed bath, inside stories on your colleagues–you name it. Particularly the bed bath.’

  ‘How did you know I’d been attacked, Jack?’ I wasn’t in the mood for our usual verbal sparring. I knew he had his sources and I was panicking that word on the assault on me was out. Lavender would cover me as best she could at work–and that was nothing to be sniffed at–but if Roddie and Co. actually knew that I had been attacked, that would put a completely different complexion on things. As I waited on his answer, I became aware that I was absolutely starving. Reaching over, I pulled the plate of pancakes towards me, and pain shot down my right arm. I had an instant memory flash–after I had gone over Awesome’s handlebars I had landed awkwardly on my right shoulder.

  ‘You in pain?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Nothing like asking the obvious to show your shit-hot journalistic credentials, is there?’ I looked at him grumpily, now too sore to eat.

  He answered by shoving a pancake into my mouth. It tasted better than I would ever let him know.

  ‘The old guy left pills for you, but I think they’re a bit dodgy, no packet or anything. At the risk of repeating myself–which I’m sure you’d never let me away with–you need to watch yourself, Brodie. I had a bad back and the doctor gave me extra strength pain killers. I brought some in case you needed them.’

  I refused his medicine, leaving the pills on my bedside cabinet. Jack Deans had no healing skills that I could see and he seemed oblivious to the irony of me taking his pills over those from Malcolm. The man was hardly a walking ‘good health’ advert.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Sniffing out another scoop, Jack?’

  ‘Aw shut it, Brodie. I’m actually genuinely concerned–and genuinely bothered given that I’m forsaking my valuable time to be passing you bloody Lucozade and grapes. Show a bit of gratitude, will you?’

  I’d do the shutting up bit, but that was all he was getting. I was still getting over the irony that he was in my apartment, and I was in bed, but we were both fully dressed and eating pancakes rather than doing what was a damn sight more appealing.

  ‘It’s just that I spoke at length with Fishy, and he filled me in on the details. I thought perhaps, well, after the accident your recollection might be hazy…’

  My mother had always insisted that I did not speak with my mouth full; now managing to stuff the warm pancakes into my mouth, old habits died hard and I nodded at Jack, urging him on.

  ‘Fishy received an anonymous call at the police station. It came through on his mobile.’

  Jack knew the import of what he was saying. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach, making the pancakes suddenly hard to digest. Fishy’s number wasn’t easily obtainable; someone had gone to considerable lengths to find it. Either that or they knew it already.

  ‘They said that you’d met with an accident near Dunsappie Loch.’

  Jack Deans sat down on the bed, his bulk pulling the covers tightly over my legs, so that I was suddenly aware of pain in places that had hitherto seemed fine. Ignoring my wincing, he grabbed my hand.

  ‘Brodie–they said it was a warning. You don’t mess with these bastards.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Jack. I don’t know who they are so I don’t know who to stop messing with. Did they say what they wanted me to do?’

  ‘I suspect they think we know more than we do.’

  ‘Is Roddie Buchanan a factor in all of this?’ I asked, feeling an urge to pace while still unable to move. ‘Maybe they think I found out something when I was acting in his defamation action.’

  ‘What, more than what was splashed over the papers?’

  ‘Seriously…can you imagine how edgy some people are feeling just now? Kailash is a loose cannon. If she’s goi
ng down–and it looks as if she is–then I bet she intends to take every member of the establishment that has ever come within five feet of her right down there too.’

  Sheriff Strathclyde’s behaviour at the judicial examination had certainly convinced me things could blow.

  Something else was bothering me.

  ‘How did Kailash know to send Malcolm? She’s in prison.’

  Jack Deans got up and circled the bed. For the first time I noticed the creases in his shirt, and the heavy circles under his eyes. Had he been keeping watch with Malcolm, or had he thought it necessary to stand guard?

  ‘Something else I don’t know. The guy’s like fucking Mary Poppins, but more effeminate than Julie Andrews ever managed. He just turned up at the door.’

  ‘Is that when Fishy phoned you?’

  ‘Yep, he wanted to check him out, to see if I knew anything about him. But he’s a shadowy figure in Kailash’s life. Don’t know what the old guy’s hiding, but he’s covered his tracks pretty well.

  ‘Obviously, Fishy was worried about you. You were bleeding so much and he wanted to take you to hospital. Stroppy cow that you are, you refused. I can’t even imagine how hysterical you must have been to get him to agree.’

  Too many questions were in my head. I knew that Fishy had recently had his doubts about his superiors in the force. His sleepless nights weren’t for nothing. Like me, there were cases that niggled, details that made sleep impossible, but, for Fishy, it had been going on for too long as far as I could see. It had been a while since we had stayed up till the wee hours chatting over a bottle of wine, but even I could see the dark circles under his eyes, notice the weight falling off him, and recognise the jumpiness from sleep deprivation. I had the impression that someone he worked with was making things hard for him–phone calls abruptly finished when I walked in, he took days off when I knew he wasn’t ill. I’d had enough run-ins with cops to know how difficult they could make things–was Fishy being picked on by one of his own? Had someone given his mobile number out? If they had, how did they know who had attacked me? Who was involved with what here?

 

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