Carol, of course, was hardly Miss Sanity herself. The result of what she called her "quirky" childhood. She grew up on a farm in the Borders, a solitary child with elderly parents and no near neighbours. She wrapped dead animals in kitchen foil and buried them in her private graveyard at the bottom of an untilled field. Apart from weasels. They were in the privileged position of having their desiccated bones and tiny sharp teeth collected and stored in jam jars under her bed. What disturbed Eddie was that she had started with animals her dogs or other wild creatures had killed and then moved on to doing her own hunting. Setting traps. Snaring rabbits and things. Nothing too big.
The question was, did that make her crazy? Who was to say that, in similar circumstances, Eddie wouldn't have amused himself in the same way? He'd known her for a long time now and if she was crazy he'd have noticed. Obviously she wasn't completely stable or she wouldn't have had that spell in the psychiatric unit where she met Robin. But everyone gets depressed, don't they? More than just a letter's difference between sad and mad. Well, that was his opinion.
Until last night. He had little doubt now that Carol was as crazy as a lobotomised bug. He wished he could talk to Robin about it. Perversely, her husband was the very person who could shed some light on the question of her sanity. But if he knew that Eddie and Carol were….well, Eddie didn't want to go there.
"Don't do that."
"What?"
"Chew your lip."
Eddie stopped chewing his lip and started thinking about the night they'd spent together.
She had woken him up, screaming. He rolled over and wrapped an arm around her waist.
She shrugged his arm off and scrambled out of bed. She wouldn't shut up. He pulled the quilt over his head, but it was no good. He could still hear her. He pulled back the quilt and yawned and swore and switched on the bedside lamp. The bedroom was cold and his mouth tasted of rotten eggs. He rubbed his eyes. The bookcase swam into focus, the umbrella plant leaning against it. Discarded clothes lay jumbled on the rug. Carol was standing in the corner with her face in her hands rocking backwards and forwards like something, well, like something let loose from a lunatic asylum. Her nightdress was wet and clung to her left leg.
He swung his feet out of bed and stumbled towards her. He stepped on a hairbrush and swore. When he reached her he grabbed her wrists and yanked her hands away from her face. Her slender hands wriggled out of his grip and went straight back to her face. "What's the matter?"
She stamped her feet like a toddler having a tantrum. He clamped both her wrists in one hand and squeezed until she yelled. He slapped her. He didn't want to, but he couldn't think what else to do to calm her down. When he let go of her hands she immediately shielded her face with them again. He reached out and grabbed her. Her hands were slippery.
It took about ten minutes and the same number of slaps to calm her down.
He asked again, "What's the matter?"
"It was touching me." Her breathing was jerky. The words came out as five distinct syllables punctuated by sharply drawn breaths. She said it again. "It was touch-ing me." She looked at him with her smoky grey eyes. "It woke me up. Scared me."
"What was touching you?"
Her face looked like invisible fingers were clawing at it, scratching holes in it from which tears streamed out.
It was 02:31, according to the alarm clock.
By 02:54 he had an answer.
What had happened was this. He had been snuggling up against her in his sleep. He slept naked. At some point during the night he got an erection. She had woken up, felt his penis pressing against her and proceeded to wet herself.
No big deal. His cock touching her had scared her so much she'd pissed herself. Now why was that? He couldn't begin to understand. And she wouldn't discuss it. Still, no big deal, eh?
Carol's public persona, the one he thought he'd fallen in love with, was as false as the blue varnished fingernails of the hand now gripping the stolen car's steering wheel. As false as the two blue varnished fingernails that clamped the cigarette she raised to her lips. The real Carol was a crazy woman with a penis phobia. God, but Eddie wanted her. Blood rushed to his cock. If only he could unbutton his trousers and whip it out, yeah, whip out his cock and invite her to wrap her lips around it. The thought made him giddy. Oh, sweet Mother of Christ. But his cock was repulsive, remember? Instantly, his penis shrank. He lowered the window and let the wind bite into his cheek. Before long the whole side of his face was numb. He closed the window and the car soon filled with smoke.
"How's it handling?" he asked her.
"Good."
"Thought you'd like it," he said. "You got on well with the Sierra we used last time." Eddie had put false plates on the car and he'd stick the taxi sign on the roof later. They were heading west. He looked at his watch. Less than an hour and a half to go.
"Think we should head back to town?"
Eddie leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. "Took the words out of my mouth," he said. "Wake me up when we get there."
11:42 am
Pearce walked over to the window. Thompson turned in his chair. Pearce put his hand into a gap in the blinds and spread his fingers.
Thompson's office looked out onto an abandoned church. Behind a low wall ribbed with black spiked railings, thistles flanked a cement path leading to an oak door. Above the door, a stained glass window had been smashed and subsequently boarded up. All that remained of the original design was a single pane depicting a circular object, possibly a halo. Two drunks sat on a stone step beneath the window, shivering as they took alternate swigs out of a can of Special Brew.
Thompson coughed.
Pearce continued observing the winos. One of them got up and pissed where he was standing. Heels planted solidly on the ground, he moved his toes from side to side, spraying urine this way and that, until his bladder had emptied. He shook himself dry, sat down and reached for his beer. His shoulders rocked when his friend pointed to his groin and he realised his dick was still hanging out. He got to his feet again and sorted himself out.
Apart from the drunks in the churchyard the neighbourhood was deserted.
Pearce said, "Quiet around here."
"Yeah," Thompson said, a wobble in his voice. "It is."
"You in a hurry?" Pearce stepped away from the window.
Thompson shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Pearce unclipped his mobile and selected number two in the phone's memory. Number one was his mum's home number. Number two was her work number. Her boss, Denise, answered and went to fetch her.
A short time later, sounding breathless, his mum said, "We're busy."
"Don't let them work you too hard."
"What did you want?"
"Just returning your call."
"Oh." She paused. "I'd forgotten. It was nothing really," she said. "Just a feeling. Oh, I don't know." She paused again. "Seems silly now. Probably nothing. You didn't hurt Willie Cant, did you?"
He could see her expression. Frowning, tight-lipped. The look she wore when he'd been bad. Like when he strangled that girl at school. Isla somebody. Even though it was an accident. They were playing a game. Kiss, Cuddle or Torture. He caught her, pinned her to the ground and tried to kiss her. She struggled. In preventing her escaping he'd managed to choke her half to death. Looking back on it now, that was probably when he became aware of his own strength.
An accident. Nobody believed him. Not even Mum.
Thompson's chair squeaked.
Pearce looked at him and the poor bugger flinched. Pearce said to his mum, "Can I meet you for lunch?"
"That would be nice. I'm on an early shift. Get off around one. Where do you want to meet?"
"I'll come and get you."
"Listen, I've got to go. Denise is covering for me and she won't like it." She made a kissing noise and hung up.
Pearce dug into his back pocket and pulled out the piece of paper Cooper had given him. Of the four
names listed, there was only one left. Corrigan, Domenic hadn't been at home. Cant, Willie he'd seen. Ditto Lillie, Ailsa. Which left Muirton, Jack. Address in Sighthill. No phone number.
Thompson was gnawing at his thumb.
"You got a phone book?" Pearce asked him.
The sauna manager almost fell off his chair in his eagerness to oblige. One by one he hauled out each of the four desk drawers. "Sure there's one somewhere," he said, after determining that the last drawer was empty. He slammed it shut, opened the top drawer and started searching again.
"Doesn't matter." Pearce dialled directory enquiries.
"But it's here." Thompson pulled out the drawer and tipped the contents onto the floor. A Gideon's bible landed with a thud. A box of matches spilled open. A packet of chewing gum rolled under his chair. Various other items bounced out of sight under the desk.
"Muirton," Pearce said into the phone. He spoke to Thompson: "Can I have that pen?"
Thompson stooped to pick up the biro that had come to a halt against Pearce's steel toe-capped boot and handed it over.
"42 Lochend Drive West." With the pen, Pearce tapped the second drawer down. "Paper, please Pete."
Thompson slid out the drawer and tore off a sheet from the notepad he found inside. Pearce took it from him and wrote down Jack Muirton's phone number. He wasn't home. Pearce left a message on his answering machine, warning Jack what would happen if he didn't pay up tomorrow. When the tape ran out he hung up.
Thompson was scratching the back of his hand.
Pearce placed his phone on the desk. "Take your trousers off," he said.
"Wait a minute." Thompson swallowed. "Can't we sort this out?"
"I don't know. Can we?"
"You want money? I'll give you money." Thompson fumbled in his pocket, located his wallet and brandished it with a look of triumph. He snapped it open and held out a wad of bills. "Here." He waved the money at Pearce. "Take it."
"I don't want your money."
"Take it," Thompson pleaded. "All of it. There's a grand there."
"That's a lot of money."
"Never know when it might come in handy."
Pearce said, "Thanks," and stuffed the money in his back pocket. A grand. Exactly the amount he'd borrowed from Cooper. Enough, now, to pay off only half the debt. "Remove your trousers."
"Come on," Thompson said. "Let's be civilised."
"Please," Pearce said. "How's that? Please take your trousers off."
Thompson threw his empty wallet onto the floor. His voice was quiet. "What you going to do?" His fingers moved towards his belt and rested on the buckle.
"Get a move on," Pearce said. "And you'll find out."
"Can I have my money back?"
"What do you think?"
Slowly Thompson unfastened his belt, slipped it out of his trousers and folded it in half. He stroked the leather strap with his thumb, then held both ends and pulled it tight. Spinning, he lashed out. The strap hit Pearce high on his left bicep. Thompson roared and swung the belt again. Pearce caught it, held it firmly and dragged Thompson towards him. Thompson stopped yelling and let go of the belt. Pearce looked at the pink mark on his arm, then switched his gaze to Thompson.
Without a word Thompson unbuttoned his trousers, pulled down his zip and dropped his trousers.
"Off," Pearce said.
Thompson untied his shoelaces, removed his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Although his shirt hung over his groin, he cupped both hands in front of his boxer shorts. "What now?"
"Take your pants off."
"You're joking."
"Do we have to go through this again?"
"Fuck you. You want to see my cock, you poof? Well, fuck you."
The belt buckle caught Thompson just above the eyebrow. He staggered sideways, a look of shock on his face. He started to moan. One hand left his groin to cradle the side of his head.
After a while he said, "I'll leave Ailsa alone."
Pearce watched him for a moment, and lowered the belt. "I know you will."
"And Becky. I'll stay away from both of them."
"I know you will."
"I promise." He looked up. "I'll do whatever you want." He wiped his nose. Snot lodged in his moustache.
"That's good," Pearce said. "I want you to take off your pants."
11:50 am
Just over an hour to go.
Robin sat at a window table for four. At each place setting a plastic stand held a piece of white card with the word RESERVED printed on both sides in a bold red typeface. Outside, saplings in wire cages dotted the wide pavement in a parody of a Parisian boulevard. Fake cannonballs – sculptures alluding to the traditional one o'clock firing of the cannon from the Castle – pitted Leith Walk's paved, elongated traffic islands.
In the café, music blared. Jazz, heavy on drums and sax, percussive piano muted in the mix. He spread his fingers and stabbed a few chords on the tabletop.
When he was thirteen Robin had auditioned for three of Britain's top music schools: St Mary's in Edinburgh, Douglas Academy in Glasgow and Chetham's in Manchester. All three offered him a place. He chose Chetham's because, at the time, it had the best reputation.
Shortly after his fourteenth birthday his dad drove him south to his new school. Robin sat in the front seat telling his dad how much he was looking forward to improving his technique so that he could have a shot at the Liszt B minor Sonata, one of the hardest pieces in the piano repertoire. In those days the only trouble he experienced with his hands was an occasional stiffness, easily remedied by submerging them in a bowl of hot water for a few minutes.
Dad reached into the glove compartment and took out a half bottle of whisky. He took a long pull. "I don't care about your arsing technique."
Robin cringed. He waited for it. It came.
"You're a leech."
His dad's favourite insult. It had become a nickname, almost. Leech. My son, the leech. "Sorry, Dad."
"Don't cheek me, you little shit." He took another sip. "Leech." A muscle tugged at his upper lip. "Bloodsucker." His lips were pulled back from his teeth. "Parasite."
"I wish you wouldn't be like this, Dad."
His father's face was twisted with rage. He got like this when he drank, which was so often it seemed normal these days. So normal that it never occurred to Robin that his dad shouldn't be driving.
Robin hummed quietly to himself. Chopin's C-sharp minor Nocturne. He tapped out the notes on his thighs.
Dad said, "This money the council have given you."
Robin broke off mid-bar. "The bursary?" The fees were five grand per annum, a sum well beyond his parents' means.
"You'll be there for four years. That's twenty grand. Bleeding us tax payers of twenty grand, right?"
Robin didn't want another hiding. He said nothing and started playing the Chopin again.
"On top of the money we've already spent on bloody piano lessons. See, you've been sucking the life out of me most of your life. And for what? For all this arty-farty crap you and your mother like." He slapped the steering wheel. "Waste of money. My money."
"Dad, I need you to—"
The slap stung his cheek. The second slap made his lip bleed. He shielded his face with his hands, tasting warm, salty blood.
"Pathetic," his dad said. "Fourteen years old and look at you, crying like a wee girl."
"I'm not." He lowered his hands to let his dad see his defiantly dry eyes.
Dad mumbled, "Can't even kick a football straight."
They didn't talk for the rest of the journey, Dad sipping his whisky and Robin trying not to cry. When they arrived at his new school, his dad helped carry Robin's few personal items to his dormitory on the upper level of a two-storey prefab. Across the courtyard Palatine House still bore an external resemblance to the Victorian railway hotel it once was. Inside, as Robin recalled from his post-audition guided tour, cacophony erupted from four floors of practice rooms, each identically furnished with a music stan
d and a Daneman upright piano. To the right, cloisters led to the Baronial Hall, location of public lunchtime recitals. Above the spiked railings that fenced in a croquet lawn, Manchester Cathedral dominated the skyline.
He turned to his dad and said, "I really thought you'd be proud of me."
"I'd be bloody proud of you if you stopped pissing the bed. That would be something to be proud of. But I don't suppose you could do that legato in three four time, eh?" His dad left without saying goodbye.
All Robin wanted to do was play the piano. He didn't care what his father thought. The man was a philistine and a drunk and he wasn't worth crying over. While Robin was still in his mother's womb, parasitically clinging to her body, he had managed to suck the life out of his father. At least, that's how Dad saw it.
Once upon a time, Dad had fancied himself as a jazz drummer. Robin had heard him play only once, on a kit in a music shop when they were looking for a new piano for Robin. And the truth was, much as Robin hated to admit it, his dad had been quite talented. But, when Mum became pregnant with Donald, Dad had given up his musical aspirations in favour of a regular income in the bakery department of a meat-processing factory. When Robin followed his brother into the world two years later, Dad saw no way out of his mind-numbing job. According to Mum, that's when the drinking started, and after the accident, it accelerated rapidly.
Funny thing was, once he'd arrived at his new school, and despite the growing frequency of his nightmares, Robin never wet the bed again.
Four years later, music school was over. Since starting college he had been practising eight hours a day. One day, about a month into first term, bolts of fire started shooting down both arms. His fingers hurt when they moved and his wrists burned when they bent. The doctor diagnosed tendonitis and prescribed physiotherapy. Three months later, three months without being able to practice, he was no better, so the doctor prescribed anti-inflammatories, which, after a few days, enabled Robin to play for a couple of hours without pain. This joyous state lasted for all of a week, when he woke up one day to discover his arms were numb, he had difficulty moving his fingers even slightly and his wrists were grossly swollen. He spent the next year and a half seeing all sorts of specialists who could only agree on one thing: he had one of the most severe cases of ulnar neuropathy any of them had ever seen. On good days he tried to play. Most days, something as physically undemanding as brushing his teeth brought tears to his eyes. He left college after fifteen different treatments, including two operations to relocate the ulnar nerve, had failed to help. Mum was heartbroken when it became clear that he wasn't going to be the great concert pianist she'd always dreamed he'd become. His dad said it was all psychosomatic attention-seeking bollocks and the boy ought to get a bloody honest job and stop moaning like a fairy. But by then his leech of a son didn't care what Daddy thought.
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