Shadows of Sounds lab-3

by Alex Gray

  ‘What about Karen? Do you still hate her?’

  ‘Oh, Edith, I never hated Karen. In fact,’ the Chorus Master said lightly, ‘I probably never stopped caring for her.’ He sat down and took the woman’s cold hands in his own. ‘There’s something else, though, Edith.’ He paused then took a deep breath, ‘Karen and I had another child together.’

  ‘What?’ Edith sat bolt upright, her hands pulling away form him. ‘Maurice, how could you do that!’

  ‘The usual way,’ Maurice laughed shortly. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the immediate look of disapproval in her face, ‘That affair didn’t last long either. Karen was too damn fond of her marital status to take any risks with me.’

  ‘You mean her daughter is …’

  ‘My daughter too. Yes, I know. I’ve known for years. She even called her Christina, can you believe that?’

  ‘But the boy, Christopher. You must have known who he was, what he was doing?’ she persisted.

  ‘Edith, what’s this all about? Just how much do you know about Christopher Hunter? You haven’t just come to ask me about my illicit love affairs, have you?’

  ‘No, Maurice,’ the woman said, her voice quiet yet controlled. ‘I’ve come to ask you about George’s affairs.’ She looked straight into his eyes as she added, ‘You see, I think I understand now why he was killed. And it’s all to do with Christopher.’

  From the front room of Edith Millar’s home the phone rang out yet again into the darkness, its shrill insistence disturbing the silence. But no hand came to still the noise that jarred the dull air between the walls of the room. Eventually it stopped, the reverberation only a faint memory stirring the shapes of heavy furniture and the grand piano sitting sombrely in the bay window of Huntly Gardens.

  It was after midnight when Maurice Drummond quietly closed the door behind him and slipped out into the street. The night mist had cleared from the river and now the moon was shining down, making tiny arcs of light along the swirling current. His heart began to thud as he jogged along the side of the railings in the direction of the taxi rank. Maybe he’d have a bit of a wait, after all it was Christmas week and all the bars and restaurants were filled with office parties whooping it up until the wee small hours.

  But Maurice Drummond was in luck tonight. There was one single cab outside the Botanic Gardens, the driver lounging outside, his cigarette smoke rising in the cold night air. The cabbie looked up as Maurice slowed his pace to a walk then flicked the rest of his fag across the street as they made eye contact.

  ‘Where to, pal?’ he asked and Maurice told him.

  Glasgow was alive with revellers as the cab made its way down Great western Road towards the city centre. Term time might be over for a couple of weeks but the entire student population seemed to have taken to the streets. A group of lads in Santa hats with luminous bobbles flashing suddenly lurched off the pavement, causing the taxi driver to swerve and swear at them.

  ‘Bloody neds!’

  ‘Aye, Merry Christmas tae you an’ all, Jimmy!’ came the reply as they passed the laughing figures.

  ‘They don’t care, so they don’t,’ the taxi driver grumbled. ‘Different story if they’d ended up under ma wheels,’ he added gloomily.

  Maurice Drummond did not answer him, staring instead at the passing tenements, wondering if he would find what he was searching for at the end of this journey.

  As he paid the taxi driver, giving him an extra tip because it was Christmas, Maurice noticed two figures leaving the mouth of the close across the road. He drew back into the shadows, pulling his coat collar up around his ears, watching the pair make their way towards the twenty-four hour shop on the corner. One of them suddenly threw back his head in a spontaneous burst of laughter, his face revealed by the street lamp above him. Maurice’s heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest. The very sight of that smile caused a physical pain. And it was doubly cruel that the smile was not for him but for the younger man whose red-gold hair shone like a halo beneath the light. If only he had been alone, he thought, then everything would have been so much simpler.

  Maurice watched as the two men linked arms and drew closer together. Then he shuddered. It was too much to bear, this love of his. He had to do something tonight. And he’d never have a better opportunity than this. He waited until they were out of sight then crossed the road. There were eight names against the security buzzers. Maurice pressed one after the other until a distant voice asked who he was.

  ‘It’s Chris from upstairs,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘I forgot my key.’

  There was a grunt from the unseen occupant on the first floor flat then a low thrumming sound that signalled the release of the lock. Maurice glanced along the street then pushed open the door, creeping quietly up the stone stairs until he reached the flat he wanted. He was in luck; the front door was unlocked, showing that his guess had been correct: they were only out for a quick errand.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Maurice Drummond slipped inside the flat and made his way along the corridor until he found the room he wanted.

  He saw the violin first. Instinctively he lifted the instrument out of its case and cradled it in his arms. Chris had held this violin night after night as he’d watched and listened to his son making sweet music. More than anything he wanted to wait here and let the boy find him, tell him all the things he’d longed to say over the years.

  The unmade bed stopped him in his tracks. This was where Christopher had been making love to another man. Was it also the place where he’d made love to George Millar? Edith’s words came back to him suddenly like knives. The horrors of the past few weeks that he’d pushed into the deepest recesses of his mind resurfaced with startling clarity.

  He couldn’t do this, he simply couldn’t.

  With a groan of despair he put the violin back in its open case. Feeling in his pocket, he took out the gift-wrapped present he’d brought. Maybe he could just leave it here? He tried to picture his son’s puzzled face as he opened the gift in the morning. Or would he keep it until Christmas day? Whatever, it would be a surprise he wasn’t expecting, that was certain.

  Maurice’s fingers were on the handle of the door when he heard voices from the close below. He was trapped! They’d find him here and he’d have to explain why he had come. Sweat broke out on Maurice’s forehead as he envisaged the looks of incredulity and even pity on their faces. Hurriedly he pulled open the door of the bathroom next to the front door, praying that they would pass him by.

  The voices grew louder and then the front door was opened and closed with a bang. Maurice stood stock still as footsteps passed him by only inches away. Surely they could hear the sound of his heart hammering?

  At last the voices disappeared along the corridor and Maurice heard another door opening then music began to spill out from the far end of the flat. Holding his breath, Maurice slipped out from the bathroom and quietly turned the handle of the door. Mercifully there was no creak as he opened the door and crept outside, pulling it quietly behind him.

  Saying a prayer to whatever spirit had been on his side, the Chorus Master felt his way down the steep stairs like an old man. Out in the street once more he sank back against the stone walls of the tenement, tears of shame pricking his eyelids.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘For you,’ Simon said softly, his eyes shining, ‘I made it specially.’

  Chris sat up in bed, pulling the duvet up around his waist. ‘That was nice of you,’ he remarked, his hands outstretched to receive the breakfast tray.

  Simon shrugged. ‘It’s nearly Christmas after all, isn’t it? Goodwill to all men, even queers like us, eh?’ he laughed and turned away, leaving the man in the bed looking after him, a puzzled expression on his face. Simon had taken it so well last night, he thought. They’d had a great night together, just like old times. He’d never even mentioned Tina and Chris had offered no explanation. That could wait. He’d hardly had time to adjust his own emotions let alone talk
to Simon about the previous day’s revelations. It was enough that they were still friends.

  Chris spooned the porridge into his mouth. Great! Simon had made it just the way he liked it, big dollops of syrup sliding down the sides of the cereal bowl.

  When the first spasm hit the back of his throat, Chris instinctively tried to balance the tray to stop it falling over the bed. His voice wheezed as the cry for help stuck in his gullet, the air refusing to flow through his trachea. With a crash the tray landed on the floor, the grey contents of the cereal bowl splattering in a sticky mess against the wall.

  As Chris fought for breath he watched the lumps sliding downwards like slowly moving slugs leaving milky trails dripping on to the carpet.

  The shock waves were making him dizzy now and he couldn’t focus. Where was Simon? Why wasn’t he here to help him?

  Then from somewhere far away he heard a voice telling him terrible things. Things that weren’t true. His hands clutched at the Christmas card beside his bed, its glossy picture crushing beneath his fingers as the darkness rolled over him.

  When her front door bell rang, Tina was certain it would be Chris.

  ‘Coming!’ she called. So what if she wasn’t even dressed yet? It would be her brother. It had to be. ‘My big brother!’ she said aloud, the very sound of the words like a caress.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said her voice registering sudden disappointment at the sight of the man standing on her doorstep. Then, seeing the expression on his face, her tone became anxious. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? Nothing’s happened to Chris?’

  Tina stepped back as the man came into the house. He had not uttered a word but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. With a cry Tina stumbled against the edge of the banister as his hands caught her shoulders, pinning her against the staircase. Her scream was silenced as his fist slammed into her mouth then she heard herself moan, the taste of blood mingling with the sudden pain.

  Before she could even try to scramble away, the blows began to rain down on her head then she felt his hands pulling at her dressing gown, releasing its cord.

  ‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘Please. No!’ Tina struggled against him as she felt her body being pulled this way and that, her hands fixed behind her and her ankles pinioned tightly with the cord.

  ‘Stop it! Why are you doing this to me?’ she cried, her breath coming out in great sobs.

  Then the girl’s eyes widened in alarm as he untied the kerchief from his neck and twirled it between his fingers. Her cry was muffled as the gag cut into her mouth, her final protests silenced.

  ‘Why?’ He broke the silence at last. ‘You have the nerve to ask me why? So that you and your bastard will never see the light of day, that’s why,’ he sneered, panting slightly as he stood over her abject body.

  Then Tina watched in horror as he pulled a familiar object from his pocket. It was a small cigarette lighter shaped like a harp. Her eyes stared wildly as the lighter snapped open, its flame rising higher as he turned the tiny cogwheel.

  Then, laughing, he spun the flame around his head and let it catch hold of the curtains above her.

  ‘Just for starters,’ he laughed, then dipped the flame against the carpet, watching as it licked a smouldering brown path along the floor.

  ‘Where the hell is he? I haven’t the time for this today.’ Lorimer fumed. He’d only a few hours left before checking in at the airport and he was damned if Christopher Hunter was going to screw that up for him. ‘I’m going down there myself. Coming?’

  Solly shrugged. With Lorimer in this mood, did he have a choice?

  The door was lying open when they arrived at the top of the stairs. Solly glanced at Lorimer’s face, recognising that grim look of foreboding. He shivered suddenly

  There was something not right about this. The two men made their way down the darkened hall towards a light that flared out from a side room.

  ‘My God!’ Solly breathed. ‘What has he done to himself?’

  Chris Hunter lay unconscious, the sheets pulled away from his body as it slumped heavily over the edge of the bed. The smell of vomit made Solly take a step backwards, his hand across his mouth, but Lorimer was immediately at the bedside, seeing the swollen lips and the rash that was visible beneath pale, stubbly skin. As his hand felt for a pulse, his fingers met the touch of metal. Around the man’s wrist was a bracelet. Lorimer peered at the inscription.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Lorimer turned to the psychologist. ‘Look here. It says he’s a severe allergy sufferer. This is a Medicalert bracelet. And there’s a number on it.’ He pulled out his mobile, jabbing out the numbers. ‘Ambulance. This is an emergency.’

  The policeman explained the situation and relayed the membership number on the bracelet while Solly’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess on the wall, the fallen tray and the ioniser on the shelf above the bed. He frowned suddenly, wishing that Rosie were here to tell them what might have happened to the man lying across the bed.

  Solly’s eyes returned to the black box above the bed. ‘See that?’ he pointed it out to Lorimer. ‘My sister used one of these for her pet hair allergy. Could he have had some sort of asthma attack?’

  ‘Check his things,’ Lorimer replied, still listening to the voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘What do we want?’ Solly spoke almost to himself as he moved across the room. ‘A medical card of some kind?’ He bent down to retrieve a jacket that had fallen from the back of a chair. Lorimer’s face darkened as he listened to the voice on the emergency line. ‘OK. I’ll try my best but for God’s sake get a move on.’ He clicked shut the mobile.

  ‘We’ve to look for an pre-loaded adrenaline kit. It’s like the sort of pen that diabetics carry around. They say he should have one wherever he goes so it won’t be far away. Looks like he’s suffering an anaphylactic shock.’ Lorimer said. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything in here or that poor beggar hasn’t a chance,’ he said, glancing down at the man on the bed as he rummaged in the bedside drawer.

  ‘Bingo!’ Lorimer breathed out in relief as he held up the sealed kit.

  The psychologist looked away as Lorimer administered the drug. He focused instead on the arm drooping from the sheets, its clenched fist brushing the floor. Obscured at first by the corner of the duvet, Chris Hunter’s motionless hand was closed around a Christmas card.

  Solly bent down, his fingers prising the card from the unconscious man’s grasp. His foot pushed against the bed linen revealing a torn envelope. Smoothing out the creases of the Christmas card Solly opened it. Inside was a photograph of a young girl smiling out from the crumpled gloss. He read the sloping handwriting, nodding to himself.

  ‘What d’you make of this?’ he began to say, then both men turned their heads as the sound of feet came racing up the stairs.

  ‘Thank God!’ Lorimer breathed as the paramedic crew arrived at the bedroom door, stretcher and oxygen at the ready. ‘Here,’ Lorimer handed over the empty adrenaline pen. ‘I gave him this just before you arrived.’

  ‘Might help. How long has he been in a coma?’ one of the paramedics asked.

  Lorimer shook his head, his mouth a grim line. ‘We don’t know. He was supposed to be meeting me an hour ago and didn’t turn up. God knows how long he’s been like this.’

  ‘OK. We’ve got the rest of his details from the Medicalert database. Come on, fella, let’s get you out of here.’

  The two men watched as Chris Hunter was gently lifted away from his bed. His body, wrapped in double cellular blankets and strapped onto the stretcher, looked ominously still as it was carried out of the flat by the paramedics.

  ‘Think he’ll make it?’ Lorimer asked them.

  ‘Maybe. Depends if he responds to that shot you gave him,’ one of the crew replied.

  Lorimer turned back to see Solly by the window. The psychologist was examining a Christmas card that he’d picked up from the floor. Had it fallen from the window ledge? There were several others th
ere in a row. Curious, Lorimer moved towards the window and looked over Solly’s shoulder

  ‘That’s Tina Quentin-Jones,’ he said, seeing the photograph that had been stuck inside the card.

  ‘See what she’s written,’ Solly showed him. There, under Season’s Greetings were the words, From your new wee sister, with love, Tina. December 22nd. Happy Christmas.

  Lorimer’s mind spun with sudden possibilities. He turned to face Solly. ‘What else could she have given him?’

  Once more he recalled her desperate expression at Karen’s funeral. Did Tina Quentin-Jones imagine that Chris Hunter had killed her mother?

  ‘Could she have deliberately given him something to bring on this reaction?’

  ‘Somebody did,’ Solly pointed to the porridge congealing on the skirting board. ‘Who else lives here?’

  ‘Simon Corrigan, but he …’ Lorimer paused. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly, letting his gaze fall to the window ledge. He picked up one card after another until he came to the one he was looking for.

  ‘What does this tell you?’ Lorimer held it up for the psychologist to see. ‘Not the sort of message you’d write to your mate, is it?’ Solomon read the message on the card, his face serious as the implication sank in. Then he looked up.

  ‘Where is he, then? Why’s Corrigan not here if he’s expressing his undying love to Christopher Hunter?’ Solly asked.

  Suddenly Carl Bekaert’s words came back to Lorimer. ‘Love. It’s not a dirty word?’

  ‘Love. You just said it. That’s what it’s all about,’ Lorimer stared at Solly.

  ‘That’s what it’s been about from the beginning, only we couldn’t see it.’ For a moment there was a triumphant spark in his eye then his expression changed.

  ‘No. Oh, dear God, no.’ Lorimer’s eyes flicked from one Christmas card to the other. ‘He’s gone after the girl. Quick, let’s get out of here.’

  As the flames began their ascent of the heavily embossed wallpaper, Tina struggled to free her hands from their bonds. She could still hear Simon in the lounge, the sound of a glass clinking against a bottle. Suddenly it reminded her of her father and his nightly tipples.