The Midnight Eye Files Collection

by William Meikle

  We had a few more beers and reminisced about how the Aragon hadn’t really changed since we’d first visited it as students. At that time the pub had a reputation as a place to pick up loose women...nurses in particular. Not that Doug and I had ever had any luck...we always got too drunk. Much like now, in fact.

  When the reminiscing got too maudlin, we moved on to the Ashoka for a curry.

  And that’s where Jim Morton finally caught up with me. I heard him before I saw him.

  “Where is the bastard? I know he’s in here. Get out of my fucking way.”

  There was a clatter, and I turned to see him step round a pile of plates. He saw me at the same moment.

  “Adams, you wanker. Where is he? Where’s my story?”

  “Hi, Jim,” I said. “How are the nuts?”

  “I’ll be singing fucking soprano for a month,” he said. “And I won’t ask you again. Where is he?”

  Three waiters converged on Jim, but he held them at bay with a stare so ferocious that they backed off.

  “Sit down before they throw you out, Jim,” I said. “I left him wi’ his mammy. He’s not going anywhere.”

  He stared at me suspiciously, then sat down and started eating his way through our meal.

  “So fucking tell me already. You owe me.”

  “I owe you nothing, Jim. It was you that couldn’t talk a barmaid into giving you a lift, not me. And I didnae know where they would take me.”

  He was slowly calming down. Maybe it had something to do with the amount of our meal he was wolfing down.

  “You could have phoned me,” he said as he pushed half a Nan bread into his mouth...his table manners were nearly as bad as his language.

  “Nope,” I said. “I didn’t have the mobile with me. Doug will tell you.”

  Doug had a mouthful of pakora, so he could only nod.

  “Okay. I’ll believe you,” the reporter said, helping himself to my lager. “But I still need to talk to him. I’m going to go over there now. Are you coming?”

  “No. I’ve already been paid. But good luck. You’ll have a job getting past his mother.”

  Then I remembered my promise to John Mason.

  “Could you not leave it alone, Jim...for tonight at least?” I asked him. “The boy is burying his father in the morning. Give him a few hours peace ‘till then.”

  “Buy me a beer and I’ll think about it,” he said.

  The night went downhill fast from there.

  About midnight the three of us rolled out of our fifth pub and Jim Morton caught a cab. Then I started the process of getting Doug to go home.

  I was thinking that maybe I’d made a mistake by giving him a job... and he was becoming increasingly out of touch with reality. Now he was trying to persuade me to let him sleep on the floor of the office.

  “I won’t be any trouble,” he said. “I did it last night, and it was fine. All I needed was the cushions from the sofa and...”

  “I said no...and I mean it. I’m not running a doss house for retired archaeologists.”

  My attempt at humor fell flat.

  He suddenly looked like a lost and bewildered boy. Tears hung at the corners of his eyes.

  “You don’t know what its like,” he said. “I hear it, in the dark, the crazy flute player...and I feel them, the rough tentacles, crawling all over me.”

  In truth I knew part of it...we shared similar nightmares.

  “Please, Derek?” he said. “I can’t be alone. I’m not ready. Not yet...”

  And I gave in, as he knew I would.

  I do believe he actually would have slept on the floor for a second night, but I had a cot bed in my room that had been bought in case of sudden visitors. The fact that it was still in its original wrapping plastic reminded me, more than I cared to admit, that I didn’t have enough friends to merit sudden stopovers. But Doug looked suspiciously happy as he helped me carry it out into the office.

  “This is great,” he said. “And it’ll only be for a couple of nights...a week at most and...”

  “A week? I don’t think so. Let’s just get tonight out of the way,” I said. “It’s been a long day and sleep is calling.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got my e-mail to check, then I’ll be off myself.”

  I could see the flickering light of his monitor under the door when I put out the light, and it was still on as my brain shut down and I fell gratefully into sleep.

  I dreamed. I was in bed, in the flat, having been woken by some never repeated noise. The room was lit from outside by an orange sheet light that cast red shadows across the carpet. I was in that state between awake and asleep that causes the imagination to run riot and the heart to lurch at the slightest unexplained noise.

  Something climbed the stairs outside. Well, not climbed as much as slumped, the noise like a wet fish being slapped on a fishmonger’s slab. The shocks caused by its movements jolted the room, the red shadows quivering in the mirror, making the reflected room shake. The air in the room was damp and then damper, and I had the impression of water glistening on the carpet, droplets covering the ceiling and running in small rivulets down the walls.

  Whatever the thing was, it had climbed the stairs and was dragging itself across the landing towards my bedroom door.

  I wasn’t worried, I knew that it was a dream, vivid, maybe, but still a dream, and that I would wake up before it got too frightening...after all, it wasn’t as if it was The Amulet dream.

  The radio alarm switched itself on.

  “Kashmir” by Zeppelin echoed its bass line around and around. The door, behind my back and out of sight, opened slowly, and it came into the room, bringing with it the tang of sea and rotting weed. I felt something take hold of the duvet and pull it away from me. I resisted as hard as I could, pulling back and holding tightly, but the pull was too much, dragging my body sideways across the bed and onto the floor that squelched wetly as my shoulder hit it and forcing my head round to face my attacker.

  The Creature from the Black Lagoon stared back at me—at least that’s what it looked like, a large, blue-green scaled body topped by a big maned head, green, saucer-like eyes unblinkingly scrutinizing me.

  The creature reached down, grabbing my shoulders, sinking small claws into the flesh beneath my shoulder blades, lifting me up to face the twin rows of teeth and breathing one word that woke me up. I stifled a scream.

  I sat up straight in bed, sweat pouring off me. The red digits of the alarm told me it was three-thirty in the morning, but that didn’t help me. I sat there, breathing heavily, until some control returned to my breathing, then I lay back down. But it was a long time before sleep caught me again. When I got up in the morning Doug was either still at the desk or back at the desk...I didn’t have the energy to ask which.

  “Did you sleep OK?” he asked.

  I see-sawed my hand back and forth as I slumped in my chair.

  “There’s coffee in the pot, and the paper and cigarettes are on your desk,” he said.

  I reached for a cigarette.

  “Fetch me a coffee then, wench,” I said.

  He smiled, but brought me a piping hot, thick, black mug full.

  “I put the cot away against the wall,” he said. “And I’ve been to the bank and deposited the checks.”

  “Thanks...but you forgot to polish my shoes.”

  He looked grief-stricken, until he realized I was pulling his leg.

  “I just wanted to say thanks...for letting me stay,” he said.

  “Just don’t expect it to be a regular occurrence. You caught me at a weak moment.”

  Once more he looked crestfallen, and I suspected the tears might be back, but I hid behind the newspaper until I heard him tapping at the keyboard.

  The day passed slowly. Nobody came up the stairs, and old Joe down in the newsagents only sang “Just One Cornetto” twice. I read the paper and smoked ten cigarettes over four cups of coffee.

  I got days like this sometimes, when the clo
ck crawls and I have too much time on my hands...time which weighs heavy on me. Normally I’d be down in the pub by mid-afternoon, having the first of too many beers. But I had an employee now, and I didn’t want to set a bad example...not in his first week on the job, anyway.

  I moped, I flicked rubber bands, and I stood at the window for a long time, staring out at the busy street, trying to will someone to walk up to the office.

  In the late afternoon the first visitors of the day climbed the stairs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a client...it wasn’t anybody I wanted to see...it was the police.

  There were two of them, neither of whom I’d seen before. The first through the door was almost as wide as the doorway itself. He was at least six-foot-two, and looked like he ate Rottweilers for breakfast. His face was beet root red, and he was breathing heavily, like a bull before a charge. His suit, shiny at knees and elbows, was a full-size too small for him, and he looked like he’d burst it if he kept breathing too energetically. The floor of the office shook and I could feel myself inwardly cringe away from him as he approached my desk. If he said “Fee-fi-fo-fum” I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  I had to make the effort to smile.

  “Good afternoon, officer,” I managed to say.

  “How did you know I was the Police?” he said in a voice that sounded like he gargled with sandpaper.

  “Don’t be stupid,” a voice said from behind him. “How could somebody that looks like you be anything else?”

  The man-mountain moved aside, and the other half of the partnership came into view. I say half, but she was more like a quarter...she was small and thin, and dressed in the female coppers street uniform that they pinched from TV shows...black slacks, white shirt and black leather jacket. If she said “There’s been a murder,” I was going to have a giggling fit.

  “Mr. Derek Adams?” the mountain said, and I nodded.

  “Are you the owner of a Land Rover, registration DA70 5RS?”

  I nodded again. Somehow, I felt talking would be too dangerous.

  “We’ve had a complaint,” the female officer said. Her voice was high-pitched, shrill, almost a shout. “Someone using that vehicle committed a felony assault on a reporter from the Star.”

  “Felony assault...what is this...NYPD-fucking-Blue or something?” the big man said. He turned to me.

  “Jim Morton says that some bird was driving your car and gave him a kicking for no apparent reason. Me, I want to meet her and shake her hand, but the wee dirt peddler has only gone and raised a complaint against the woman. My boss wants her ‘brought in to hear her side of the story’.”

  “And?” I said. That was my mistake. A hand the size of a shovel had me round the throat before I could breathe in.

  “And just tell me who she is and we’ll be away and leave you in peace,” he said. “Or do I have to ask you again?”

  Black spots floated in front of my eyes, and he had to release his grip slightly before I could talk.

  “Irene...I don’t know her surname,” I croaked. “...Irene from the Portree Hotel. I was on holiday there and she delivered the car from Portree for Mallaig for me so that I could take a fishing trip. I...”

  His hand left my throat.

  “See. That was easy,” he said, interrupting me.

  He turned on his heel and left without another word. The female cop scurried along behind, giving me a look that seemed to say “Sorry, but I’m not with him” before she shut the door quietly behind her.

  The encounter had lasted maybe ten seconds. Doug had sat, mouth open through the whole thing.

  “You gave her up...” he finally whispered.

  “Not quite,” I replied. “And if I know her, she can handle herself well enough. It looks like Jim is out for revenge, and I know better than to go up against both the papers and Police at the same time. Have you seen the big fellow before?”

  Doug shook his head. He still couldn’t believe I’d given the police Irene’s name.

  I rubbed at my throat.

  “I need some air. I’ll go and ask Old Joe. He knows everything,” I said. “Hold the fort...and don’t lock the door behind me...if the big fella comes back he won’t bother to knock.”

  Old Joe did indeed know the cops.

  “The big chap is Jock McCall. He got transferred last month from Govan...rumor has it he was only arresting Celtic supporters as he’s Rangers daft. Seems he got a wee bit overzealous and put two lads in the Southern General Hospital. They’ve moved him up here in the hope that he keeps out of trouble.”

  “He looks like the kind that trouble follows around,” I said.

  “I remember him when he was a boy,” Joe said. “He was always getting into fights...and usually winning them. Then one day he nearly killed a boy...battered him to a bloody pulp. He was hauled in to the police station...and it put the fear of God into him. Next thing anybody knows, he’s a policeman. He’s been getting away with battering folk legally ever since.”

  “Aye, I don’t want to get on his bad side.”

  “He disnae have any other side.” Joe said, “But at least you know where you are with him.”

  Joe shifted his weight from the left foot to his right. I wondered how many times he’d done that over the years. He was looking over my shoulder, watching life go by in the street outside. I knew there wasn’t much, if anything, that got past him. I threw him another tester, but he proved up to the challenge.

  “So who’s the woman?”

  “Elizabeth Mulholland. ‘Just call me Betty’ she says, but mostly folk just ignore her. She follows the big man around like his pet pup. They say she was only brought in to make up the numbers in Maryhill so there would be some women on the beat. “

  He shifted his feet again.

  “I’ve heard some talk that she’s actually quite smart...for a policewoman. But most of the time she just follows in his wake. Around here they call the pair of them ‘The Bear and the Spare’.”

  I was still chuckling at that as I climbed back up to the office. The door was open and I could hear Doug’s voice.

  “Oh no. That’s far too much money.”

  “Nothing is too much money!” I shouted, thinking he was on the phone, but when I walked into the room I saw that old lady Malcolm was once again ensconced in the armchair. At least Doug hadn’t brought out the whisky.

  “The lady wants to give us five thousand pounds,” Doug said.

  “And we’ll be happy to take it,” I said, sitting down opposite her at my desk. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want you to take the boy back to Skye,” she said.

  “Ah.” I said. “There’ll be a catch?”

  “With money there usually is,” she said. “He took off after the funeral. And I don’t think going back to Skye was on his mind. He...”

  I stopped her before she got into her flow. I didn’t need her talking too much...not in front of Doug.

  “Where did you last see him?” I asked.

  “At the gates of the cemetery after the funeral,” she said. Her eyes went wet and she took a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at them. I knew then that I was in serious trouble.

  “The service was beautiful, and there was a fine turnout...more than I had expected. Even Jeannie Todd turned up, and her and I have nae spoken for nearly ten years, not since she...”

  “Ms. Malcolm,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I’d just slapped her.

  “All right...I’m getting there. I’ve just buried my man, and here you are bullying me. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Then the tears started to roll down her checks.

  I bowed to the inevitable and got the whisky out of the drawer.

  I’m sure I caught an extra glint in her eye as I poured, but she was too good to let it show. She sat back in her chair and sighed. I knew when I was defeated. I lit cigarettes for both of us and passed one to her.

  “Doug,” I said. “Ms. Malcolm and I have confidential matters to discuss. Make yo
urself scarce for an hour or so.”

  “I’ll just go next door and watch telly for a bit,” he said. I was about to say no when the old lady butted in.

  “Just make sure you turn the volume up. I don’t want you listening at the door.”

  A minute later we heard the television being switched on, and the sounds of a game show filtered through the door he’d closed behind him. Just after that Doug started shouting the right answers at the screen.

  “That’ll keep him happy for a while,” I said.

  The lady leaned forward, her voice serious.

  “You need to keep an eye on your pal there,” she said. “The flighty ones are always unpredictable.”

  Once more I marveled at her art of swallowing and holding smoke before she continued.

  “I suppose you’ve only told him as much as he needs to know?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s for the best,” she said. “For I’m not sure he’s ready to see what’s happened to my boy.”

  The formalities were over...she was getting down to business.

  “It happened when we were coming out of the cemetery. The night before, after you brought him home, I thought it was all going to be fine. He was quiet, but he always was, even as a lad. Last night we just talked, about his aunties, about his schooldays. And he stood beside me in the church and at the grave, which is all I wanted. But at the graveside he started to sweat and tremble. Jeannie Todd told me later she thought it was the D.T.’s, but I knew what it was. I held his hand tight, and he lasted as far as the cemetery gate. Then Jeannie’s man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and that was it...he was off like a frightened rabbit. It was nearly worth it to see Jeannie Todd’s face.”

  She stopped just long enough to finish her whisky. She didn’t ask for more, just cradled the glass in her lap.

  “God forgive me. I should have let him stay on Skye. Those Masons might be bastards, but they know what they’re doing.”

  “And what is that?” I asked, pouring her a large measure.

  “He told you the story,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  “Aye. But I’ve no idea where the Mason brothers fit in.”