by SJI Holliday
‘Please . . .’ she whispers. ‘Don’t do this.’
His grubby paws grab at her breasts, rubbing and mauling, until finally she snaps.
‘No! I said no!’ She shoves him hard. He stumbles backwards across the small room, crumples and slides down the wall at the other side. He looks up at her, and his eyes are wide with surprise. He didn’t expect her to stand up to him. He glares at her. He didn’t expect it, and he doesn’t like it. Anger flashes. His face contorts with rage.
‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ He stands up straight, his hands are raised in front of him like claws. He is an animal. A wild cat, ready to pounce. Ready to tear her to pieces.
A single tear runs down her cheek and she closes her eyes. She holds her breath. She stands, paralysed.
He makes a small whimpering sound.
The air shifts around her. The storm has passed. She opens her eyes.
He slumps into a kitchen chair. He has his head in his hands. A low whine is coming from somewhere deep inside him. His hands rub at his head. Frustration. Agitation. He starts to methodically pull out great clumps of hair. She hears the sound of flesh ripping. Sees the blood on his hands.
She has to try hard to stop her voice from shaking.
‘I want you out of here when I get back, or I’m calling the police.’
She doesn’t give him a chance to reply. She scoops up the cat, who protests by spitting out an annoyed mewl and scratching her on the arm. She walks calmly out of the flat. Gulps in mouthfuls of fresh air. She turns back. He hasn’t followed her. She hesitates, waiting for him to appear at the front door. After a few minutes, it’s clear that he’s not coming out. She exhales a long, slow breath. Wipes a solitary tear off her cheek. She’s safe. She’s free.
She drops the cat on the grass.
‘Off you go, puss,’ she says. ‘Off you go and play. Mummy will be back later. Don’t you worry.’
The plastic bag is still in her pocket. She pulls it out, drops it into her bag. Walks to the party, stopping at the off-licence on the way. She needs a quick livener. Something to lift her up and calm her down. The little angel inside her head says, Call Davie. It’s not too late . . .
No, she thinks. I can handle this by myself.
32
Davie won’t be ridiculed. He’s been worried about Marie, but she’s thrown all his attempts to talk to her back in his face. She’d been like a different person last night in the pub. That little scrote Sam hanging around, smirking. Something’s going on between the two of them. Sam and Marie. Davie can sense it, the awkwardness. But Marie won’t say anything.
He knows this has nothing to do with him.
There’s still no sign of Woodley though, and that is a problem. He’s going to text Marie the link to the article. See if he can draw her out like that. He wants her to talk, but she won’t. What else can he do?
He drops a packet of diced chicken into a pot, covers it with a jar of madras curry sauce. Slams the lid on. He opens the pouch of Uncle Ben’s basmati rice and wanders through to the living room, scrolling through his phone. He’s got a Paul Weller album playing low on the stereo. That’s him in for the night. Settled. Marie can sort herself out. He’s not running after her any more.
He’s about to ring Malkie for an update when the phone buzzes. It’s Malkie. Funny that. Twice that’s happened recently. Davie doesn’t believe in coincidences, but sometimes it does spook him when things like this happen. It’s not much of a shock, though. They have been talking most days.
‘Was just about to call you . . .’
‘Aye. I’ve been down at that hospital. Still no sign of Woodley, but they’ve been investigating the “situation”, as they’re calling it. Fucking balls-up would be a more accurate description. They’ve discovered that Woodley was using someone in there to help him with stuff on the staff computer. One of the admin girls. Young. Impressionable. Apparently Woodley could be quite charming. Quite funny. Anyway, she’s gone AWOL. They can’t get hold of her. I can’t work out if they’re worried about her safety or just pissed off that she’s done a runner. They can see that’s she’s accessed Woodley’s next-of-kin information. I’m waiting for the warrant for them to confirm the details. Should be any time now. And Davie . . .’ Davie hears him take a deep breath. ‘I’ve got some news for you, and you’re not going to like it. Woodley’s sister . . . It’s Marie.’
Davie feels an icy cold hand gripping the back of his neck. ‘Shit. Listen, I’ve been doing a bit of investigating of my own. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure because I had nothing concrete. Just a feeling. Marie’s got a stack of letters in her kitchen cupboard. There’s a crest on the postmark. I thought it looked familiar but I wasn’t sure . . . And she gave me her keys. There’s a photo on there of her when she was sixteen. They’ve got the same eyes. Jesus.’
‘Christ, man. Why didn’t you say anything before? The link has been there since the beginning. Our lookalike Jane Doe . . .’
‘I tried to ask her about them but she all but threw me out. She’s all over the place. I don’t know how to talk to her. But I get the feeling that she’s torn . . . So now I know Woodley is definitely her brother. Her twin brother. And, er . . . I think she might know where he is. She hasn’t said as much, but she’s knows something. I’m sure of it. I’m trying to be supportive, but—’
‘You need to take a step back here, Davie,’ Malkie interrupts. ‘Forget about any relationship you might or might not have with her. You need to talk to her. Properly. Bring her in. Have a chat at the station. Make her realise this is serious. Tell her about the poor cow that Woodley attacked. Tell her the details. Go round and see her. If you genuinely think she’s got any inkling of where Woodley might be, we need to know. If it was him, then he needs to be up on an assault charge. He needs to be back in high security. It drives me mad the way these places work. They’re dealing with the most manipulative people in society and they let them go on day trips!’
‘Graeme Woodley is schizophrenic, that’s not the same as a psychopath, Malkie. We don’t know if he’s manipulative. He’s mentally ill. He’d been assessed and downgraded. They didn’t think he was dangerous. That’s all we know right now.’
‘Don’t give me that. You’ve seen those articles. You must’ve read the one written by that fancy-pants heid doctor. He said that Patient X had most likely been manipulating Victim Y for years. He had some sort of control over her. There were hints of there being a sexual element too – it tied in to what he did to her, and the fact that she had a boyfriend at the time. Woodley was jealous. He tried to damage her so no other men could have her. Tell me that’s not manipulative. As for what he did to that poor woman who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. People like him should be locked up . . . And there shouldn’t even be a bloody key!’
Davie sighs. ‘I’ll go round. But I’m not expecting her to talk to me. It’s gone past that now. I think you need to come down tomorrow. I’ll ask her to come into the station. We’ll tell her everything. I think she’ll talk. She just doesn’t want to talk to me.’
‘You’re too close to her. She’s embarrassed.’
‘No, that’s not it. She’s been pushing me away recently, just doesn’t want anything to do with me. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t know what more I can do.’
‘All the more reason to get her in then, eh? Get her to tell us where he is. Talk to you tomorrow. I’ll be down about nine. Oh . . . wait. We’ve been following up on that stuff with the ethanol. Your theory looks sound. All the overdoses and the two deaths have all been in places within five miles of where the funfair has been. Your one there is due to close up after Thursday night. They’ll be moving on Friday morning to set up elsewhere. We’re going to leave it until then. I don’t want to chase them away too soon.’
‘You know that a local lad called Mark Lawrie was hospitalised after taking some of that shit. Are you sure you want to leave it until Friday?’
<
br /> ‘Aye. Speak to the boy, if you can. More we can get on them, the better. This is part of a bigger thing, Davie. I want the whole thing sorted out, not just this one fair and this one amateur chemist. He’s small fry. He’s not behind the whole thing, but he’s going to lead us to them. The IT boys have got some info from that forum thing you sent, but they’re having to jump through hoops. Masked IP address and all that. There’s an operation behind all this. I want all of it, not just a wee segment.’
‘Right then. I’ll go and see Marie. Talk to you tomorrow.’ Davie hangs up.
He walks back through to the kitchen, where the pot of curry is bubbling hard on the stove. Turns it off, leaves the lid on. It’ll be cooked by the time he gets back. He takes the scooter. He’s there in five minutes.
The side gate is blowing in the wind, banging against the latch. He presses Marie’s buzzer. It took a few goes the last time before she answered. Buzzes again. Waits. Tries it twice more, then knows that she’s either not in or she’s not going to answer. Wednesday night, she should be back from work. He takes the keys out of his pockets. Hesitates.
He remembers.
Ian and Anne’s party. He was invited, of course. But he’d forgotten all about it. He’d heard someone mention it in the pub the other day when he’d popped in to see Marie. Someone asked if he was going. He stands at the door, thinking. Weighing up his options. He could go to the party, have a few drinks. Try to forget about what’s going on, if only for a few hours. But it wouldn’t work. If Marie is there – which he knows she will be – it’ll only be awkward. He won’t be able to talk to her there.
Tomorrow then.
He’ll ask her to come down and chat to him and Malkie at the station. He’ll leave her to it tonight. He should probably go to the party and get her, but she’s with Anne. She’s with Ian. What harm could come to her there? If she has been in touch with Woodley, she’s hardly likely to take him with her. Wherever he is, he’s staying under the radar. Out of sight. Marie’s not alone tonight, and that’s all that really matters. Let her have this night. Let her have some fun. Tomorrow she’ll have to answer some difficult questions. Davie just hopes she will cooperate. Tell them where Woodley is. Help them lure him in. They don’t know for certain yet if he was responsible for the attack on the housekeeper, but he needs to be brought back in. For his own safety, as much as for anyone else’s.
It was all going to kick off tomorrow, he could feel it. Marie . . . Graeme Woodley. Then the next day would be a very different visit to Forrestal’s Funfair. He’d have pleasure watching that unfold. The little scumbag that was supplying the Banktoun residents might only be a small fish, but he was a slimy, repulsive little fish. Davie would be delighted to get him hooked and gutted.
He arrives back home, looking forward to his dinner and a quiet night. He turns off the engine. Climbs off the scooter and wheels it in through the gate. His head is down, and he’s humming to himself. One of those songs that’s always on the radio. Something annoyingly catchy about a secret potion to make you fall in love.
He hears a faint rustling noise. The song dries up in his mouth.
He’s not alone.
Someone is leaning on the wall next to his front door.
The figure has his hood up, arms crossed over his chest. Even in the dying light, Davie can see that the expression on his face isn’t a happy one.
Davie stops walking. ‘Hey. . .’ he says, his voice uncertain.
The man pulls his hood off and drops his arms to his sides. ‘It’s me, ye daft shite. Where’ve you been?’
Davie sighs. Tries to cover up the fear. The stupidity. Who had he expected it to be? ‘Jesus, Callum. What’re you doing skulking about outside my door? You scared me half to death.’ Davie pulls off his helmet, relieved.
A cloud passes across Callum’s face. ‘Wasn’t sure you’d be home, Davie. Listen – I need to talk to someone . . .’
33
Marie almost changes her mind when she hears the music pumping out on to the street. She can see through the window that the living room is already full of people. Laughter escapes through the open front door. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts outside and down the path to the front gate.
‘Oi, out the back, I said.’
She recognises Anne’s voice. Smiles. Glad that her friend is managing to keep things under control. But it’s only nine thirty – still early. If it’s anything like the party at Jack Henderson’s, it’ll be barely kicking off yet. She takes a breath to calm her nerves. She feels sorry for Graeme, wants to help him. But she’s scared. She’ll let him stay one more night, and then she’ll call the hospital. Get them to come and pick him up. Davie doesn’t need to know any more about it. No one does.
She feels bad about how she’s treated Davie. Eventually he’ll guess that she slept with Sam. He’s no fool. But she’ll talk to him. She’ll sort it out. She’s had a blip. Messed up. He’ll understand, won’t he?
She slides the half bottle of rum back into her handbag. She’s only had a few nips, but she feels the comforting warmth of the alcohol hitting her bloodstream. Her cheeks have grown pleasantly hot. She feels calm.
She takes the rum back out of her bag and takes another small swig. The bottle is half-empty. She’s fine now. Warm. Relaxed. As she slips the bottle back into her bag again, she feels her phone vibrate. New message. It’s from Davie. She hesitates. Doesn’t want to get involved. Not tonight. She’ll reply saying she’ll see him tomorrow.
She opens it: ‘Marie, I think you should look at this.’ There is no kiss. Just a link and ‘Davie’. As if she didn’t already have his number in her phone. As if she didn’t know who he was. Maybe it’s spam? Her finger hesitates over the link.
‘No,’ she mutters. ‘Tomorrow.’
Nicely buzzed from the rum, the house feels like a welcoming place. She sees plenty of people she recognises – a lot of regulars from the pub. People nod, raise their glasses. Their cans. A few shout ‘All right, doll!’ She smiles back. Feels herself sway, just a little bit. She’s up for it. She’s going to enjoy herself.
Ian appears from the kitchen. ‘Hey, you!’ He leans in to kiss her on the cheek. ‘No Davie?’
‘Working,’ she says. Shakes her head. She squeezes his arm and shifts past him before he can ask her anything else.
‘Marie?’ she hears him say behind her.
She pretends not to hear. She’s too busy trying to make her way through the ridiculous number of people crammed into the small space. People try to talk to her, a hand on her elbow, a hand on her back. She feels like she’s not really there. Observing from afar. Looking down on it all from the ceiling and seeing herself shoving her way through. Someone grabs her arm, pushes her into the kitchen.
‘There you are,’ Anne says into her ear. Anne’s arms wrap around in a hug, but Marie’s return is lacklustre. ‘Ian says you’re being weird. Are you being weird? What’s up?’ Anne is trying to keep her voice light, but Marie can hear the questioning tone underneath. Anne is good at reading her. Needling at her. Buzzing around like a fly.
‘I’m fine. Just need to blow off a bit of steam. Gimme a break, eh?’ She can’t be doing with this. The doe-eyed concern. Marie nudges her friend out of the way and opens the fridge. Takes out a can of cider, pops it, drains half. Anne is staring at her. Waiting. Marie locks eyes with her. Doesn’t blink. Marie can hold a stare for as long as she can hold her breath. Something else she used to do with Graeme.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Anne says, eventually. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
‘Good. Don’t talk to me then. I can’t be fucking arsed anyway.’ Marie takes another can of cider from the fridge and pushes past Anne, walks out the back door and into the garden. Anne says nothing, but Marie knows she’s just storing it up to have a go at her later. ‘Tomorrow,’ Marie says. ‘Save it for tomorrow.’
She hears Anne swearing at her.
Feels like laughing.
Feels like cryin
g.
The drink. It’s just the drink. She’d hoped she could just turn up and get quietly wasted without drawing any attention to herself. Why did people have to be so bloody concerned all the time?
‘Fuck!’ she shouts, out towards the grass. She’s trying to pretend that everything is OK, when clearly nothing is OK. Maybe nothing will be OK ever again.
‘All right, Marie? Someb’dy pissed on your chips, hen?’ It’s Scott. He’s leaning against the back wall of the house, smoking.
‘Got a fag I can have?’ Marie hasn’t smoked since she was eighteen, but as she’s already activated her self-destruct mode, what’s another vice to add to the mix?
He shakes the pack at her, letting a cigarette stick out from the top. ‘Couple of lovebirds down in the shed,’ he nods towards the bottom of the garden.
Marie glances at the shed, where a flickering light is visible through the plastic window. A candle, probably. She looks at Scott. Takes him in. ‘Where’s your missus, then? Thought you were on a tight leash.’
Scott laughs. ‘Just how I like it, doll. Nah. She’s working lates this week. Says she might try and nip away early. Tell them she’s got a headache or something. They always send folk home when they’re sick.’
‘What, is she a nurse or something?’
He chuckles. ‘You’ve met Leanne, haven’t you? Not exactly got a bedside manner. She works in a call centre for RBS. On lates, she basically answers the phone to drunk folk who’ve left their cards behind bars. She’s cancelled the wrong ones before – husbands and wives with joint accounts. Some of the stories . . .’
Marie looks away, bored.
‘Aye, well. Maybe it’s only funny if you work in financial services.’
Marie ignores him. Takes a final drag of her cigarette. Grinds it against the wall. She takes another swig of cider and feels it hit her stomach. She’s already quite drunk. Not really sure what she’s doing here. She slides the bottle of rum out of her bag. Grips it tight.