Slammer

Slammer Page 20

by Allan Guthrie

  'That's the idea.' She held out her wrists. 'Would you like to tie me up?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'I'm excited,' another guy said, fists clenching and unclenching, mouth jerking into a series of split-second smiles. 'I'll do it.'

  'How about you, Nick?' she asked Glass. 'Or would you rather I tied you up instead?'

  'Do I know you?'

  'Oh,' she said. 'I thought you were better. Isn't he better?'

  'Annie,' Riddell said, 'that's not polite.'

  'Why is this slut here?' Glass said.

  'Nick, that's not polite either.'

  'I've every right to be here,' Annie said.

  'Fuck you,' Glass said.

  'Well, fuck you too,' Annie said. 'How does it feel to kill your wife and kid?'

  Glass stared at her. She was on a bed, tied up, Watt slamming his body against hers. At Mad Will's flat, making that porno film. Was it her? Was it someone who just looked like her?

  Riddell touched Glass's elbow. 'Let's go to my office.'

  'You're a bastard,' she shouted at Glass as a nurse tried to calm her down. 'You killed them.'

  'I never,' Glass said. 'I never did that.'

  Nobody said anything. Everyone was staring at him.

  'I never did what she said,' he muttered. 'It was Watt.' He looked at Riddell. 'There's going to be a trial.' He whispered, 'I'm going to be there.'

  *

  'Must have cost a packet,' Glass said. Riddell had a fancy new computer on his desk.

  'Not really. It's just a 386, 50-meg hard disk. Don't need anything too slick.'

  'Right,' Glass said, the jargon lost on him.

  Riddell looked at his computer screen. 'About Annie,' he said.

  'Yeah. Why did she say that about me?' Crazy bitch. They all were in here.

  Riddell took a dustcloth out of his drawer and wiped the screen.

  'Eh?' Glass said. 'Did you tell her that? This another game?' Funny thing, Glass wasn't angry. He was more disappointed than anything else. 'Or maybe it's that she's mad. They're all mad, or they wouldn't be here. That's a fact. You can't argue with that.'

  Riddell ran his hand over his face. He looked up at Glass. 'Do you think I'm mad?'

  Glass stared at him. 'No, course not. Why would I think that?'

  'I thought you trusted me. I thought we'd established that I'm not here to screw you over. I'm here to help you.'

  Glass glanced away, then back at him.

  'So, do you trust me?' Riddell asked. 'It's important that you do.'

  'I suppose so. Apart from the games.'

  'So you don't really think I told her …'

  'I don't know,' Glass mumbled.

  'Nick, this isn't easy. But we do need to move on.'

  Glass crossed his legs, folded his arms.

  Riddell looked straight at him, held his gaze. 'I need you to remember.'

  Glass uncrossed his legs, sat back in his seat. 'I've told you what I remember.'

  'We need to go further back. We need to know what happened when you cut your finger off.'

  'I don't know what happened.'

  Riddell was struggling to get something out, his cheeks literally bulging. Finally, he said, with a puff, 'You can't hide from this for ever.'

  A reflex: 'I can.'

  'Is that right?' Riddell turned sharply towards him. 'Is that what you want?'

  'I don't know. What am I hiding from?'

  'You finished night shift. You drove home. What happened when you got there?'

  Glass didn't remember. How many times did he need to tell him? 'Why does it matter?'

  'What happened, Nick?'

  'Watt shot my family. I couldn't help them. Don't you think I've gone over this enough?'

  'You couldn't help them because you were tied to a chair in an abandoned flat in Niddrie.'

  'Yeah.'

  'You sure?'

  'You saying I made that up? I imagined that too?'

  'No, Watt confirms it.'

  Thank Christ.

  'But there is a problem, Nick. A big problem. So big that Watt won't be on trial. Not for murder, anyway.'

  Glass felt as if someone had shoved a fist down his throat and was stirring his stomach with their fingers. 'What's happened?'

  'The post mortem reports on Lorna and Caitlin tell a different story from the one you'd like us to believe.'

  Glass shoved his hand to his mouth and gnawed his knuckles.

  'Nick,' Riddell said, 'please don't do that.'

  Glass groaned, let his hand drop. He breathed. Breathed, breathed, breathed.

  'Take your time,' Riddell said.

  Post mortem reports. Different story. You'd like us to believe.

  Glass sat for a while until he felt he could speak. 'Tell me.'

  'Lorna never went to her mother's.'

  'Where did she go?'

  'Nowhere.'

  'She had to have gone somewhere.'

  'No. Nick, she was at home all the time.'

  'She wasn't. Don't be ridiculous. I know she wasn't—'

  'She was in the bath, Nick. Her and Caitlin. By the time Watt found them, they'd already been dead for over twenty-four hours.'

  Glass bit his knuckle till he tasted blood.

  'They weren't shot in the bath.'

  'Stop.'

  'It happened in your bedroom. Someone carried them into the bathroom. Laid them in the bath.'

  'Stop!'

  'Draped a blanket over them. Pulled the shower curtain all the way round.'

  'Stop. Please stop.'

  'Any idea who that might have been?'

  *

  He lay awake all night thinking about it.

  After a couple of hours, he imagined what Riddell wanted to hear.

  He picks up Lorna, carries her through to the bathroom, tries to lay her down gently, the back of her head cracking off the bath anyway, making him cry, red tears dripping into his palms.

  Back in the bedroom, he picks up his babygirl, clutches her to his chest. The smell of milk and blood, and the salt taste in his mouth. He takes her to lie with her mother. Lowers her head into the crook of her mother's neck.

  He drapes a blanket over them to keep them warm. Slides the shower curtain across to let them sleep.

  He closes the suitcase, slides it under the bed.

  Runs hot water, soaks up the stains, the water turning crimson.

  Heats a meat cleaver over the cooker's gas flame. He cuts off the finger that squeezed the trigger. Blood gushes into the sink. The smell of meat cooking as he presses the blade against the wound.

  Before he faints, he phones Mad Will.

  Glass's imagination was a powerful one. He almost convinced himself.

  By morning, he felt as though someone had sucked out his insides through his belly button.

  He washed his face in cold water. As he rubbed a towel over his skin, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

  He lowered the towel.

  At first he thought the mirror in his room had distorted the image. But everything behind him was clear.

  What Glass saw was a mockery of who he was.

  The short hair. Those shadows under his eyes. And the fat he was carrying. He looked like a fucking chipmunk.

  He saw everything clearly.

  He walked back to his bed, removed the gun from under his pillow and returned to the bathroom.

  He shot the mirror. The glass shattered. His reflection lay in thousands of pieces. Better. Much more accurate.

  WEDNESDAY

  The next day, in his office, after the small talk, Riddell said, 'You've thought about it?'

  'Yes,' Glass told him.

  'And what do you think?'

  'Watt killed Lorna. He killed Caitlin. He killed my family.' He heard Riddell breathe. Not where he wanted to go, clearly. Glass felt detached. At the moment, he couldn't see a future for himself, couldn't imagine one. The present was all there was, and it was as if it belonged to somebody else.
<
br />   Riddell slumped back in his seat. 'Nick, the weapon that killed Lorna and Caitlin was in your hand.'

  'Doesn't mean anything.'

  'You can't ignore the evidence.'

  'I'm not. Watt could have got the gun anytime. He got it before. He could have got it again. He could have killed them when I was at work. Made it look like I was responsible.'

  Riddell drew his lips into his mouth, then said, 'Why would he go back to your house once he had you tied up at the flat?'

  'How do you know he did? Maybe he just wanted to scare me. Maybe he just stepped out into the corridor and stayed there for an hour or so.'

  'And listened to you and Mafia talking about him killing the wife and kid he never had?'

  'I might have imagined that. But it's what I remember.'

  'The story Mafia told you. Where do you think that came from?'

  'I suppose I made it up.'

  'You ever wondered why you made up a story about a guy who killed his wife and kid and then had someone cover up the whole episode for him? In fact, this guy not only has someone cover up for him but he can't even remember he's done it. You see a parallel?'

  'No,' Glass said. 'You see a parallel.'

  TUESDAY, 16 MARCH

  A table. It was okay for Glass to eat in company now. The cutlery was all plastic, though, just in case.

  Voices bubbled in his veins. One in particular, a stream of gibberish — 'I-don't-know-why-nobody-believes-me-I-didn't-touch-the-clock-it-touched-me-don't-you-get-it?'

  'Shut up.' Glass dropped his fork onto his plate. Splashed a little gravy.

  'Nick,' a nurse said. 'Stay calm.'

  'Well, get him to stop that.'

  'It's what he does,' Jason said, scratching the underside of his arm, reddening the scars. 'It's all he does. Just sits wherever he's put and spouts crap till they take him away again. You not noticed?'

  'Haven't had the chance.'

  'Needs heavier sedation. But they've tried it and he reacts badly. Poops himself.' Jason tapped Glass on the elbow. 'Can I ask you something?'

  'Depends.'

  'What happened your finger?'

  'My finger?' Glass repeated. 'I wish I knew.' He looked at Jason, saw a blur. He wiped his eyes, wiped his cheeks. He smiled. 'I'm in the wrong place,' he said. 'We're all in the wrong place.'

  'Amen to that.'

  'I don't know who I am any more, Jason.'

  'Here's the thing.' Jason leaned in. 'Nobody does. Not you, not me, not this lot of nutjobs we're saddled with, not any of that bunch in charge either. You are who you think you are. You are what you remember.'

  'You sure about that?'

  'If you're not, then who the fuck are you?'

  'What if you don't remember anything?'

  'Ah,' Jason said, 'then you're in trouble.'

  THURSDAY, 18 MARCH

  He was sitting next to that crazy bitch, Annie, watching TV when she turned and said, 'You opened your bedroom door. Lorna's sprawled on top of the bed in her nightdress, snoring. There's an empty gin bottle on her bedside table. You walked round the suitcase, on the floor, open, packed. She must have done it last night.'

  Yes.

  He shakes Lorna. 'Going on holiday?'

  She wakes up, instantly alert. 'I'm taking Caitlin to my mother's.'

  'You can't do that!'

  'Don't fucking shout at me.'

  'I'm not fucking shouting. THIS IS ME FUCKING SHOUTING.'

  She grabs a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck and tightens her fingers round it. Her voice is flat. 'We're leaving now. I'll get Caitlin up. We'll get dressed and go.'

  'You can't. I can't cope on my own.'

  'Typical,' she says. She lets go of her hair, thumps her fist down on the bedclothes.

  'What?'

  'Your selfishness. You can't cope, so I have to cope for you.'

  'I've been through a lot, for Christ's sake. I need your support.'

  'I'm not the person to help you. Look at me. I'm a fucking mess, too.' She lowers her gaze. 'We're not good for each other. You've driven me to this, Nick.'

  'Me?' He presses the heels of his hands to his temples. 'You're blaming me?'

  'Take some responsibility, for once. Look, being around you, it's not safe. Not safe for you, for me, for Caitlin.'

  'What's brought this on? Is it Watt?'

  'I found your drugs stash. Without his help.'

  Glass knows his expression changes before he can stop it.

  'Don't tell me you didn't expect this,' she says. 'I've not noticed your behaviour?'

  'I've stopped.'

  'So why's there a pile of drugs in the tea chest in the garage?'

  He could lie, tell her they're not his, but then he'd have to admit to smuggling them into the Hilton. 'Look, it's safe, now,' he says. 'Watt's going to be dead soon.'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'I'm going to kill him.'

  'And that'll solve all our problems?'

  'Yes. I'm going to do it.'

  She laughs. 'You're a fucking punch bag,' she says. 'You'd never kill anybody.'

  'Don't be so sure.'

  'You're so full of shit. How're you going to kill him?'

  Glass pulls out the gun.

  'I told you to get rid of that,' she yells. 'I told you to fucking get rid of it.'

  And the yelling grew louder and more shrill and Caitlin appeared and there was a gunshot and the tumbler fell to the ground, bounced gently, rolled in a tight arc, came to a stop.

  And later, Lorna yelling at him, asking what he'd done, telling him he was a murdering bastard, he'd killed their babygirl, and a struggle as she tried to get the gun from him, and him shoving her away and … and …

  He gives her the gun. 'Do it,' he says and closes his eyes.

  He sees nothing other than images of the tumbler as it rolls in a reverse arc, bounces gently, rises into the air and into the hand of his daughter.

  This time when he hears the gunshot he expects darkness.

  But nothing changes. He stands there with his eyes closed, waiting.

  When he finally opens his eyes, he sees Lorna on the floor, neat red hole in her forehead.

  'She hated you so much she shot herself,' Annie said.

  With her mouth shut, Lorna whispers in his ear, tells him what to do, makes sense of everything, allows Glass to carry on living. 'Remembering is too painful,' she says. 'But you need pain to forget.'

  'That's how it happened,' Annie said.

  Glass grabbed Annie's hand, tried to bite off the crazy bitch's finger. Clamped his jaws together so hard his teeth hurt. But he couldn't get through the bone.

  *

  Once he was back on his medication, Glass remembered nothing at all for a long time.

  THURSDAY, 19 FEBRUARY 2009

  Every two weeks, Nick Glass had an injection that wiped him out for a couple of days, and on the third day, he started to feel normal again. Today was the third day.

  Sun streamed into his room, sliced across the bed. He liked to sleep with the curtains open. His scars itched otherwise.

  He looked at his watch: 8.20. These days, they let him sleep on. Pointless waking him up when he was climbing out of the hole. He hoped they hadn't forgotten that today was different.

  He pulled back the covers, rotated his arm, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulder. Swung his legs out of bed, dug his toes into the carpet. He'd been moved into a much nicer place these days. He'd behaved himself for the last five years. Only had his privileges revoked once during that time. For breaking a mirror. He hated mirrors. Most of the time he managed to avoid looking at himself, but that time he'd caught sight of his own smirk and smashed his fist into the glass.

  Now he had no mirror. He liked it that way. Best solution for everybody.

  He picked up Riddell's photo frame off the dresser. Well, it turned out it wasn't Riddell's, just an old pewter frame that had sat on the desk in the office at the Hilton for as long as anyone could rememb
er. But when Glass asked Riddell what he was going to do with it after he'd left, Riddell had said he'd see what he could do. A few days later, he presented it to Glass as a gift. Glass hadn't seen the old bastard for a long time. Riddell was out in the community now. Gave up the job when he'd decided he'd had enough of being sued by prisoners. All that time on their hands, lawyers at their beck and call, the inmates had nothing better to do. They never won — not against Riddell — but the process was draining and Riddell finally couldn't take any more.

  Glass was sorry to see him go. Riddell had come to know him better than anyone.

  Riddell's photo frame — he'd continued to think of it as Riddell's — now housed a shot of Lorna and Caitlin. They'd just bought Glass's babygirl a new dress, floral pattern, yellow and red, and shiny black shoes with buckles. For her fourth birthday the following weekend. She'd insisted on wearing her new outfit home. She was showing it off to the camera, ankles crossed, shy but happy, clutching her mother's hand.

  He cried again. He cried a lot. He'd turned into Lorna's old man, crying at the stupidest thing. Sometimes Glass wasn't sure why he cried, didn't even feel sad, but this morning was different. He knew exactly why he was crying.

  He replaced the photo, then took his clothes off and climbed onto the windowsill. Closed his eyes. Imagined he could smell warm bread rising from the bakery below. Imagined Lorna standing next to him. He stood there with her for five minutes, then opened his eyes and stared at the high wooden fence twenty feet away.

  He jumped down, walked into the en-suite, where he washed his face, brushed his teeth. Then he dressed in the smart black clothes he'd laid out last night. He didn't want anyone to take his picture, though. The story would reach the newspapers soon.

  He sat by the window and waited for his door to open.

  One step at a time. He still wasn't well, but he knew now that he could get better. Maybe one day they'd let him out for good. He didn't dare hope. Hope was the surest way to destroy a man. He knew that by now.

  He waited.

  It was a while ago that Mafia had asked to see him. A month ago. No, maybe a couple of weeks. Or maybe just before his last injection. It was hard to pinpoint the exact time. Anyway, whenever it was, Glass was far from delighted at the idea of seeing Mafia again. Didn't know what Mafia wanted and Mafia wouldn't tell him over the phone. All he'd say was that he was out on parole and everything was good with him, he'd even made up with Watt. But there was something important Glass had to know. Told Glass he'd bring Watt along with him, that his brother had to be the one to explain.

 

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