by Jay Stringer
But I wasn’t going to make it easy.
‘This is really just an attempt for you to decide I’m gay, isn’t it? You want me to name a woman I’d sleep with, so you can go bank that image, and then laugh and call me gay.’
He put his hands out palm up. ‘Hey, if you want to name the man first, that would be fine.’
‘Any man?’
‘Any.’
That was easy, I didn’t even need to think.
‘Paul Newman.’
‘When?’
‘Anytime, doesn’t matter. But I’d probably say from around Cool Hand Luke. He was pretty.’
‘Okay, and the woman?’
I grinned at this. I had a way out.
‘Jessica Rabbit.’
‘That’s pure cheating,’ Fergus said straight away. He became more Glaswegian with a beer in him. ‘Cannae have a cartoon. That’s just a way of not having to name a name.’
‘Okay. Lemme think. You go first, who would yours be?’
‘Right. Well, the woman is easy. You ever see Bound?’
I nodded. It had been one of those cool films at university, the one every girl in my class had a copy of.
‘Okay,’ Fergus said. ‘Well, Gina Gershon from around then.’
‘Then and not now?’
‘Don’t know what she’s aged like, do I?’
I gave him a sly look, teasing him. ‘Sexist.’
‘And the man? Let’s see.’
‘Sounds like there are a lot of men you want to sleep with.’
‘Hey, maybe there are. But from the list? I’d say Brad Pitt from around the time of Fight Club. Not his character, mind. But him.’
I was glad he’d clarified that. I wasn’t really sure I’d want to hang out with a man who idolised Tyler Durden. I’d made that mistake in the past. Never again.
‘Okay, my woman?’ I said. ‘I’d probably say Cameron Diaz, but specifically from A Life Less Ordinary.’
‘Why that film?’
‘A,’ I held up one finger, ‘it’s brilliant. B,’ I held up another, ‘she’s hawt in it.’
‘But only that film?’
‘Yeah, there’s something about it. Anyway, is there a point to this game? You’re not Brad Pitt and I’m not Cameron Diaz, so I think we’re not helping each other here.’
‘Ah, well, see. I have a theory. I think the actor a straight person picks in these games is actually a giveaway of how they wish they saw themselves.’
‘So, you think I want to be Cameron Diaz in A Life Less Ordinary?’
‘Do you?’
‘Maybe. But you are definitely not Brad Pitt.’
We stick around for one more drink. He hesitates before we order, and I wonder if maybe he’s worried about having a third beer on our first date, but then he takes one and sips his way through it.
Once we head out into the evening air, the booze hits me.
Three drinks, and I’m feeling drunk.
I can usually take more than that. It must be the date, the mood, the everything. I turn to face Fergus and look up into his eyes. I picture us, and I picture my hands running across the lines of his shoulders and chest.
Crap.
No way, Sam.
Grown up, remember?
It looks like he’s trying to figure out what to do next, too. I step closer. I go up on my toes and kiss him. Our lips are warm together, and I press further. He matches me. My breathing picks up and I can feel myself getting warm, getting into it.
I pull back and give him what I hope is an enigmatic smile.
‘We should do this again,’ I say.
I turn and walk away without looking back. Grown up.
FIFTY-TWO
FERGUS
June 8th
02:00
I might be lying in among the plastic Christmas tree and the boxes full of shitey decorations in Scott’s apartment, but my mind is still back on the date. The kiss.
I made Sam laugh about five different times.
I say ‘about’ as if I’m guessing.
I counted each one.
I went back to my place for some supplies, then drove out to Rob’s, armed with a can of petrol and a rag. They’re going to be key props in faking Alex’s death.
I hear Scott come in. He’s shuffling, and it sounds like he walks into the wall at one point. He must have hit it hard in FuBar. He rattles around in the kitchen for a while, and it sounds like the oven is being put on. Then the television hums into life.
I don’t know what he’s doing, but I can hear a regular electronic ‘click’ followed by a running commentary of Scott saying, ‘No, nah, hmmmm, no. Seen it.’
Shite, he’s going through Netflix, isn’t he?
He clearly settles on something. Lots of explosions and running. Some lines that are probably supposed to be jokes. I’ve never seen whatever it is. He could have at least had the decency to put on something we’d both enjoy. I mean, does he not have any Roddy Piper movies?
Half an hour goes by. I can smell burning, and hear snoring.
He’s fallen asleep with the oven on.
If he has a smoke alarm, my whole plan is going to be ruined within seconds, because it’ll draw attention. Not to mention the can of petrol that I left in the kitchen. If any actual flames get to that, well, I won’t be happy when I meet my maker.
I ease the door open and look out. He’s beneath me, sprawled on the sofa. Great. That wasn’t the plan. He was supposed to go to fucking bed like a normal. I ease myself down onto the arm of the sofa. If I move too quickly, he’ll wake up. If I move too slowly, I won’t get to the oven in time to stop the alarm going off.
I step off the sofa, putting my weight onto the leading leg to take the pressure off where he is sprawled.
He snorts, clicks his tongue and then sighs.
He doesn’t wake up.
I walk through to the small kitchen and turn off the oven. I bend down and look inside. There’s something in there that was once probably a pizza. Now it’s a black disk. If I open the door, the smoke will definitely give the game away.
As I’m down looking at the casualty of cooking, my phone buzzes. I forgot to turn it off, like an idiot.
It’s Sam.
TheSamIreland – What you up to?
TheSamIreland – I’m watching a crap film.
I listen to the sounds of whatever pile of crap Scott had selected.
FergusSingsTheBlues – Me too.
I hear Scott sit up.
Baws.
I pocket the phone.
Scott talks to himself. Mutters something I can’t make out. He grunts something that sounds like ‘Nah.’ Then silence. Within a few seconds, he snores again.
The sleep force is strong with this one.
I pick up the petrol from the corner where I’d left it, and tiptoe through to the living room. There’s a cushion on the floor that Scott probably knocked off the sofa when he stirred.
I douse one side of the cushion with petrol. Then I pull the tea towel out of my pocket and do the same with that.
If this goes well, he stays asleep. He can just go out, never waking up. Even asshole rapists probably deserve not to die scared. Truth is, though, that rarely happens. When people say someone died peacefully in their sleep? Think about all those times you’ve woken up suddenly because you think your heart has stopped, or because you’ve stopped breathing. They’re all false alarms, right? Well, then think about the day it actually happens, and your brain screams to you, Wake up, fix this. Except you can’t fix it. And you die knowing that.
Wow, I’m cheery tonight.
I didn’t used to get so morbid.
I lean over him, ready to put my weight down when he stirs.
My gloved hands start to shake. I tense my arms to try and stop them. His mouth is half open, which helps. I fold the tea towel over, and start shoving it into his mouth. This wakes him up. I was hoping he’d stay asleep. It’s rare, but it has happened. So, his eyes open and he
starts to panic. I drop onto him, knees first, crushing the air out of his lungs, then pick up the cushion and press it down over his face, petrol-side down.
For a few minutes I’m sitting on a bucking bronco ride, and a strong one. He almost throws me. But I hang in there, and his movements start to fade. Each time he’s sucking in for air, he’s taking in petrol fumes. It’s going to make him choke, so if the suffocation doesn’t get to him, his own throat will. If the medical examiner decides to start looking any closer into the stiff on his slab, there will be signs of petrol inhalation. The fumes will back up Alex’s fake cause of death.
Scott’s arms go limp, and I feel his body relax.
I lift off the cushion and look into dead eyes.
Then I feel something new.
Puke.
It’s rising in my throat. I get to the toilet just in time to empty out into the white bowl. I clean up my face in the sink, then stare at myself in the mirror.
That’s never happened before.
Who are you?
My hands start to shake again.
This is my last one. I can’t do this anymore.
FIFTY-THREE
ALEX
June 8th
08:12
Alex Pennan overslept on the day he died.
He had intended to get up early, take a long shower. He’d loaded up a laptop with the data he’d stolen from MHW and put it, along with the keys to his new flat and paperwork for his secret bank accounts, in a small leather bag by the front door. He’d make his wife a full breakfast and then see if maybe she was in the mood. Fool around before it became illegal. After all, the next time they did it, she’d be fucking a dead guy.
But then, he’d thought, he shouldn’t do any of that. Nothing out of the ordinary. Okay, he’d get Kara breakfast in bed on her birthday. And, ever since a miscarriage a couple of years before, he’d make a fuss of her on Mother’s Day. But he hadn’t tried morning sex since the honeymoon. Kara couldn’t stand his morning breath, and Alex felt that brushing his teeth in preparation took any spontaneity out of the matter.
Maybe just a longer kiss, and some toast.
Would a rose raise suspicions?
It was all academic. His mind had been too full to go to sleep. He finally drifted off a couple hours before the sun came up. He slept through his first alarm. And his second. Kara was already in the shower when he finally stirred.
Shit, he didn’t want her to leave the house before he did, or to be downstairs at the same time. She might see something fishy if she was there to witness it. He grabbed the clothes he’d laid out in advance, and headed downstairs to the smaller bathroom they had at the back of the house. There he took a quick shower, dried off and dressed. Upstairs he could hear the shower had stopped, and Kara was moving around the bedroom, humming.
He moved to the bottom of the stairs and called up, ‘Bye, babe.’
Kara murmured something in return.
Alex pressed his back to the front door and breathed in deeply. This was it. Once he was outside, there was no going back. Last chance to change his mind. Last chance to be a chicken. Last chance to be a loser.
Nope.
Sod that.
He opened the door and stepped out. Pulling it closed behind him with a bang loud enough to make sure Kara heard it.
His car was on the drive, exactly as he’d left it. He didn’t pause to look at it, because Fergus had said he would only have ninety seconds once he left the house. Even still, in his peripheral vision he could see there was somebody sitting behind the wheel.
Crap. He was an accomplice now, right?
What if this didn’t work?
What if the medical examiner looked at the body?
What if the guy had people who missed him?
What if—?
What if—?
Move.
He ran round the side of the house, and pushed his way into the hedge. There was a gap there that he was hoping that damn navvy gardener wouldn’t have fixed. He hadn’t. On the other side of the hedge was a small lane that led to a small wooded area behind the house. It would lead him across the top of the hill and down to the main road on the other side.
Alex was hunched down in the bushes when he heard the car explode.
SECOND INTERMISSION
Sexy Time Mix Tape 1999
Side One
Lovefool – The Cardigans – 3:18
That Don’t Impress Me Much – Shania Twain – 3:56
Something for the Weekend – The Divine Comedy – 4:20
Mambo No.5 (A Little Bit Of . . .) – Lou Bega – 3:40
Scooby Snacks – Fun Lovin’ Criminals – 3:03
My Favourite Mistake – Sheryl Crow – 4:08
She’s the One – Robbie Williams – 4:18
Burning Down the House – Tom Jones, The Cardigans – 3:39
Side Two
Torn – Natalie Imbruglia – 4:05
Pick a Part That’s New – Stereophonics – 3:34
Right Here, Right Now – Fatboy Slim – 6:28
Fly Away – Lenny Kravitz – 3:41
Sonnet – The Verve – 4:21
Mulder and Scully – Catatonia – 4:11
Mama Told Me Not to Come – Tom Jones, Stereophonics – 3:01
PART FOUR
June 8th
‘Clearly, you’re the brains of the operation.’
—Hanya
FIFTY-FOUR
SAM
09:30
The morning run was quiet. Aside from our scheduled deliveries, there wasn’t much in the way of fresh work. It was good to get that kind of morning occasionally, because it gave me time to stop and talk to the receptionists at each client.
I liked building up relationships with them. Getting to see who they were. It gave me an advantage over almost everyone else who walked through the lobby, because none of them took the time to be friendly.
I was delivering a bunch of legal documents to Nicolay & Turner when Tina on the desk mentioned an explosion. She said it was all over the news. I headed back out to my bike to ride to the office, but then I thought again about what she’d said.
I was curious.
Cars don’t just blow up in Glasgow.
When did that become a thing?
I searched for the news on my phone and read enough for my gut to start tingling. The report didn’t mention any names, but it did give away the location. Henderland Road, Westerton.
That’s where Alex and Kara Pennan live.
And I still didn’t believe in coincidences.
The GPS tracker app on my phone now only showed one dot at their house. The red one. Alex’s blue dot had vanished.
I sent Hanya a text: Explosion, Pennan?
She replied straight away with, Husband.
Holy crap.
A woman hires me to prove her husband is cheating.
The husband blows up.
Yeah, right.
The whole thing smelled of fish. Very bad, rotten fish. Did Kara have the means to get Alex killed? Had my investigation just been a backup, in case she couldn’t make it work?
And, first things first, what would be the social etiquette on me invoicing her for the hours Phil and I had logged on the case? How long should we leave it?
I cycled back to the office in a half daze. I was switched on enough to be safe on the road, but I couldn’t swear that my mind was entirely there. When I pulled up outside I saw Mike Gibson sat in his car.
There was a baseball bat displayed prominently on the passenger seat beside him. It was stood on end, with a seat belt strapped across, holding it in place. Bats were a large part of the Gibson legend. Cricket, baseball, vampire, didn’t matter. The exact details of the stories would change, but the damage he did stayed the same.
He got up out of the car and walked toward me. His legs rotated outwards as he walked, probably a habit picked up from trying to stop his thighs rubbing together.
‘How you getting on with l
ooking for Cal, hen?’
Neither of the first two answers that popped into my head were good choices.
Well, the good news is, the other person I was investigating just blew up in his car, so now I’m all yours.
Or:
Well, actually, there’s a chance your son killed a woman I’ve been investigating, and he’s done a runner after trying to blackmail some really bad people.
Instead I went with a handshake and said, ‘Nothing solid yet, but I’ve got a couple of leads I’m following up this morning.’
‘Ah, that right, aye?’ He looked me up and down for a long time. I was used to it. ‘Okay. I’ll stop back a bit later, then. Just taking my pal out fer a drive.’
My pal.
How lonely do you have to be, that a piece of wood becomes your best friend?
He headed back to his car and I wheeled my bike into the office. A couple of the other messengers were in early, playing computer games and downing cans of energy drinks. I walked through to the back where Phil was checking messages and orders that were coming in via the app.
‘How’s it looking?’
‘Lunchtime’s going to be busy.’ He looked up from the screen for a second. ‘Uncle Fran called. He couldn’t find your mobile number, so he called here.’
I took my seat at the desk and dialled Fran’s office.
‘Salut, Crowther & Co, Alexi speaking. How may I be of service?’
‘Hola, Lex.’
‘Sam. Вітаю. Hello. Hang on, I’ll see if the gaffer’s finished on the crapper.’
After the line beeped a few times, Fran picked up and greeted me. ‘Right, Sam, straight to it. Callum Gibson doesn’t have any legal representation that I could find. Davey Lockhart confirmed for me that he doesn’t do it, because Cal and his old da don’t get on anymore, but he wasn’t going to tell me any more than that.’
‘Thanks for checking, Uncle Fran.’
‘On the other hand, I did manage to get a name for you. Because I’m that good, aye.’ He chuckled. ‘Cal’s money man is Gary Fraser.’