Darkest Thoughts

by Gordon Brown

  ‘Ah, the old Hollywood C-listers.’

  ‘Don’t knock it. Some of the parents take home in a month what we take home in a year.’

  ‘So who do they like for the job?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Fantastic – what’s the salary?’

  ‘I haven’t got the job yet.’

  ‘But if you did?’

  ‘Another twenty thousand a year.’

  ‘Touchdown.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I knew coming here was a good idea. We haven’t even finished our first drink and we’re already sorted for cash.’

  ‘I haven’t got the job yet and Mary won’t take it lying down.’

  ‘Does she know about the PTA’s view?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘So what. Forget her. What can she do?’

  ‘Throw us out of our home. Do you know what we would get for a thousand a month around here?’

  ‘Carl won’t do that.’

  Carl is Mary’s husband and a developer. We’ve had the apartment on the cheap while he’s been trying to fill it.

  ‘He will if Mary turns it on. He was round yesterday.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Nothing, but he talked about upping our rent.’

  ‘We have an agreement.’

  ‘Not in writing.’

  ‘So now you’re her skivvy?’

  ‘No choice. The meeting about the position is on Tuesday – they’re drawing up the shortlist. I need to keep her sweet till then. Otherwise she’ll think I orchestrated it all.’

  She drains a little spritzer. ‘It’ll take me five minutes to get the book. Then we talk.’

  *

  With Lorraine gone, I suck in the alley atmosphere. The door opens. Charlie appears with another drink. ‘I thought if I got you drunk you might forget you came with Lorraine and I’d have to walk her home.’

  ‘You can try.’

  ‘What’s with the bandage?’

  ‘I forgot to duck.’

  He places the black liquid on the table. ‘You out of a job already?’

  Charlie knows my history – it’s what happens when you have a year to sit on the wrong side of a bar.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Careful you don’t lose her. She deserves better.’

  From anyone else I would have taken issue at the intrusion, but Charlie had become more than the bartender. I’m into him for a good thousand on my tab, and he really doesn’t expect me to pay. I think I’m his charity case. I lift the new drink. ‘I know. Got a job going?’

  ‘You behind a bar? My profits would vanish.’

  ‘I can be teetotal.’

  ‘And I can run the hundred in less than ten.’

  ‘I’m not that bad.’

  ‘You can be.’

  ‘Could you keep your ear to the ground? I need a job – just to prove I can hold one down for a while.’

  ‘I’ll keep a lookout.’ He looks up at the sky. ‘Thirty minutes and then inside. The sun will be gone by then.’

  He’s right. It’s turning to dusk. I nod.

  He pauses before he re-enters the bar. ‘There was some trouble last week just up the street. So in before dark.’

  He vanishes.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Sorry.’ Lorraine rolls up as the sun vanishes.

  ‘Charlie wants us in. He’s having a quiet fit.’

  ‘Tell him to take a chill pill. It’s lovely out here.’

  Lorraine sits down, a book in her hand.

  Silence.

  I finish my drink.

  More silence.

  Suddenly the pub door slams against the wall. Two men roll out and crash to the alley floor. I leap from the chair, grabbing Lorraine and pulling her to one side as the men start rolling around on the ground.

  Both are dressed head to toe in leather. One has long hair and the other is a skinhead. The skinhead lands a punch. Their world has no words – just grunts. There’s more noise coming from the bar. Shouts, glass breaking – chaos. I need to get Lorraine away, but not through the pub.

  I pull at her arm. ‘Along the alley. We’ll go round the front.’ I thrust out my hand. Lorraine takes it and we leave the two leather boys rolling in the dirt.

  The alley is short and, as we swing round the corner, we find the exit that leads to the street beyond full of bikes and bikers. Three of them are laying into one guy on the ground. He’s taking a serious kicking. One of the bikers is doing nothing other than aiming his boot at the victim’s head.

  I want to step in. Lorraine senses it. She looks at me, talking to me in silent movie language. Mouth moving – no sound. Don’t go. Leave it. It’s not your business. All emphasized with a flick of an eyebrow.

  I look at the scene, my heart racing in anticipation. Two people have died in the last forty-eight hours. I won’t stand by and watch another. But I can’t put Lorraine in danger.

  Lorraine grabs my shoulder as I step forward. Her fear finds voice. ‘No, Craig.’

  I hesitate. A police siren howls in the distance. The three men stop the attack and run for their bikes. Footsteps echo behind us. I turn round and the two fighters from the alley, shaking themselves down, are sprinting in our direction.

  I step in front of Lorraine. But they split like water around a rock and vanish into the night.

  The siren is joined by others.

  ‘Back along the alley,’ says Lorraine.

  I agree.

  We jog back to the bar.

  ‘Inside,’ she orders.

  The bar is a disaster zone. Tables and chairs are wrecked and split. Glass litters the floor. The back bar a wasteland of spilt drink and broken bottles. As we enter, the last of the leather-clad invaders hobbles out of the front door. The front window is gone.

  ‘Charlie?’ Lorraine is shouting in the direction of the bar.

  Charlie’s head pops up. ‘Are they gone?’

  She nods.

  ‘Get behind the bar with me,’ he says. ‘Tell the police you ducked down as soon as the first biker came through the door. Otherwise they’ll want to know where you were.’

  ‘Charlie, they ain’t going to care,’ I say.

  ‘And if they do?’

  I don’t answer as we join him behind the bar. ‘What happened?’

  The police sirens are close.

  ‘A biker came in through the window and four others followed him through the door.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lorraine?’ The new voice is out of place. ‘Lorraine, are you here?’

  Lorraine sticks her head above the bar. ‘Mary? What on earth…?’

  I pop up. Mary is standing at the door to the washrooms. ‘I was looking for you. When the fighting started I hid in the washroom.’

  Lorraine stands up. ‘How did you know I was in Michael’s?’

  ‘I decided to pick up the book myself and the library told me you were here.’

  The door to the men’s washroom slams open and a biker steps out. His eyes are glazed. He takes in the scene, looks at us. He spots Mary, steps forward and throws his arm around her throat. She screams as he pulls her close.

  Mary is small. Four feet ten in her stocking soles. Her hair adds a few inches and is always lacquered with a full can of hair-spray. She wears three-inch heels as standard – five-inch of an evening. She’s a touch old for the skinny jeans but they help with the illusion that she’s taller. The biker is six feet plus, heavy with stubble. A small skull is tattooed on his left cheek. His dress is top-to-toe leather.

  ‘Let her go.’ My voice is loud. The biker ignores me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ A young officer has arrived through the front door, looking confused. Baby-smooth skin that probably sees a razor once a week.

  The biker staggers forward with Mary. He reaches the bar, resting his free arm amongst the debris.

  The officer w
atches him, then looks at Mary. ‘Ma’am, do you know this man?’

  Mary shakes her head.

  ‘Sir, can you please release the lady?’

  The biker looks at the officer. Eyes swimming. High on something. ‘No way, man.’ His voice is gravel and glass.

  A second, older, officer walks through the door. Where his colleague is a fresher, this one is time-served. Gray hair drops below his cap. Wrinkles map his face. A red, blood-burst nose suggests he enjoys a drink or two. The young officer turns his head to the new policeman, looking for help.

  There’s a click of steel releasing from steel. A crack as metal hits metal. A blade catches the light of the neon Miller Lite sign at the end of the bar. The biker lifts the flick knife into sight, placing it against Mary’s throat. She stiffens at the touch of the blade.

  ‘Get backup,’ says the older officer to the younger one. ‘Tell them it’s a possible 207.’ He turns to Mary and the biker. ‘What’s your name ma’am?’

  Mary says nothing.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Mary is too scared to answer.

  ‘She’s called Mary,’ says Lorraine, trying to help.

  ‘What do you do for a living, Mary?’

  Odd question.

  ‘A teacher.’ A small voice.

  ‘Local?’

  Silence.

  ‘King Street Elementary,’ says Lorraine.

  ‘Do you hear that, sir?’ He’s directing his question at the biker. ‘Mary here’s a teacher. Now you wouldn’t want to be hurting a teacher would you?’ He has an Irish lilt to his voice. ‘Good people, teachers. We need them. Too few in the world.’ He takes a small step forward. ‘Mary, are you married?’

  She nods.

  ‘Kids?’

  Mary shakes her head.

  He smiles. ‘Enough kids to deal with at school?’

  Another step closer.

  The biker collapses a little. Mary shrieks as the flick knife nicks her skin.

  The officer stops. ‘Careful, sir. No one has been hurt so far, and you wouldn’t be looking to change that. Put the knife down. Nobody here wants to harm you. Knife down and step away from Mary.’

  ‘No way, man.’ The biker turns and rests the small of his back on the bar. Mary is shivering and a trickle of blood dots her pink blouse.

  ‘A knife,’ Lorraine gasps. ‘In his back.’ She’s pointing and I follow her finger. A wooden-handled knife is embedded between the biker’s shoulder blades. The jacket is black; the light is poor but a large stain is visible. It spreads from the blade and forms a ragged triangle that finishes at the jacket’s hem.

  That’s a lot of blood. No wonder he’s leaning against the bar.

  The policeman nods at me. He’s seen it too. The biker isn’t out of his head on drugs or booze. He’s losing blood. ‘Sir, put down the knife and we can get you to the hospital.’

  ‘No way, man.’ He slides along the bar. His blood coating the woodwork. He’s only a few feet from Lorraine. All three of us are pressed up hard against the wall.

  Mary is sidestepping with the biker, trying to keep the blade away from her throat. With my back against the wall I move behind both of them. Lorraine’s eyes widen. I try to pass a silent message to her. ‘Stay still.’

  The biker is focused on the police officer. He stumbles again and Mary yelps. The movement takes him another few feet down the bar. I’m now directly behind him. My heart is tripping at triple sixty but my training tells me not to give in to the adrenalin. Use it. Channel it. Suppress the desire for action. Kill any panic.

  I take a breath and move, grabbing the biker’s knife arm from behind, forcing it forward, away from Mary. He swings round. I pull him hard, away from Lorraine and Charlie. Mary falls forward and the officer starts to move.

  The biker wrestles his arm free and I follow up with a blow to the back of his head. He staggers away from me and, without the support of the bar, and too weak to stay upright, he falls. His chin bounces off the edge of the bar as he goes down and vanishes out of sight.

  Two more officers run in and the older police officer reaches for Mary and pulls her away. He gestures to the two new cops. ‘Make sure he doesn’t get up. He’s armed.’

  The officers drop to the ground to secure the biker.

  My breath is coming in lumps, and somewhere inside my skull the kernel cracks and my brain explodes. I collapse to the ground.

  Lorraine is beside me in an instant. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My head. Jesus my head.’

  I see a blur above me and Lorraine vanishes as a body lands on her. The biker? I turn to see Lorraine lying on her back, Mary sitting astride her with an empty beer bottle in her hand. She brings it down with a sickening crunch and I shout out.

  She brings the bottle down again.

  Then the police pile over the bar and Mary is dragged away. I crawl over to Lorraine. Her hands are wrapped around her face. I try to pull them away but I have all the power of an arthritic kitten. ‘Lorraine?’

  She doesn’t respond.

  Charlie drops to the ground next to me. We are all wallowing around in a sea of glass and booze. He takes Lorraine’s hand. Even in the half-light I can see that her cheek is crushed. Swelling already starting to show.

  My head goes supernova. I scream. Then it’s gone. The world drops blue. Then light blue. Then we are back to normality. A hand is on my shoulder and I turn to see a paramedic. What the hell is going on?

  Chapter 10

  The hospital is trying its best to be a place of calm, but this is a Saturday night and St Vincent Medical Centre is one of the few local hospitals with a walk-in emergency department. We’re only a short ambulance ride from the bar and Lorraine has been taken for emergency treatment. I, on the other hand, have had my bandage renewed, been given a couple of full-strength pain-killers and been dismissed.

  I’m sitting in a waiting room with Charlie, reading the plaque that tells me St Vincent’s won the 2010 Emergency Medicine Excellence Award, when a doctor walks in. ‘Mr McIntyre?’

  I nod and he sits next to me. ‘Your wife has suffered a blowout fracture to the orbit. That’s the bone that her eye sits in. We may have to put a plate in if the eye starts to sink but, at the moment, we are going to wait and see.’

  ‘What do you mean by her eye sinking?’ I ask.

  ‘It can happen when the orbit is smashed. The eye can sink backwards. It may not but we’ll need to keep her in for a few days to be sure.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Not tonight. She’s out for the count. We had to give her some high-strength pain killers.’

  ‘I’ll wait for her to wake up.’

  ‘Up to you but I’d say you’d be better getting a night’s sleep and coming back in the morning. She isn’t going anywhere. There’s also a police officer who wants to see you. Can I send him in?’

  ‘What for?’

  He shrugs his shoulders and I nod. He leaves to be replaced by a heavy-set man in a crumpled suit. Two-day growth on his chin sits above a dirty shirt collar. He hands me a business card that has been living in the bottom of a drawer. It reads: Detective Christopher Jones. He nods. ‘A few questions and I’m gone.’

  The accent is Midwestern.

  He trails me through the events and scribbles a few things down.

  ‘Who were the bikers?’ I ask.

  The detective stops writing. ‘Out of town. As far as we can tell. Unusual as well. Bikers are not given to nonsense like that. The boy with the knife in his back didn’t make it, and the others vanished.’

  ‘So it’s a murder investigation?’ says Charlie. ‘Great. That’ll bring the clientele flooding in.’

  The detective ignores him and keeps his focus on me. ‘What gives with the attack on your wife?’

  I shrug. ‘One minute I’m lying on the floor, head pounding. Next, Mary is ramming a bottle of beer into my wife’s face.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Not a clue. Are you going
to arrest her?’

  ‘Already done. She’s up for aggravated assault. We’ll need statements from your wife, from you and from you.’ The last you is aimed at Charlie.

  ‘Now?’ I ask.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Down at the station. We’ll come up here for your wife’s statement.’

  ‘Can I be here with my wife? We can both give you a statement at the same time.’

  ‘No. I want separate statements. Anyway you’re not under suspicion so just be down at the station for ten.’ He turns to leave.

  ‘Detective,’ I say to his back. ‘What did Mary say about the attack?’

  He pauses. ‘She claims she can’t remember anything. Insists it must be a mistake. I left her pleading her innocence.’

  As the door closes behind him I sit back in the chair and let out a long breath. ‘Charlie, this is a mess.’

  ‘You’re on the pony there my friend.’

  I turn to look at the window. ‘You go sort out your bar. I’m spending the night with Lorraine.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll let you sleep in her room.’

  ‘I’ll sleep here then. Now please go.’ My words are hard. No argument wanted and the room drops quiet as Charlie leaves.

  Creeping through the heavy blinds comes the sound of horns, the squealing of tires, revving engines – all softened by the double-glazing. Voices come and go as people walk along the corridor outside. All whispers and low chatter.

  I need a coffee. I find a machine a little way down the corridor and order up a black, extra strong. The machine whirs and coughs until a cup drops and fills with scalding hot liquid. I sip at it and my face creases. Not good.

  I wonder where Lorraine is and set off to find someone to ask but I’ve not gone five paces when I hear voices approaching. I recognise them. Buzz 1 and Buzz 2. I look around for an exit. I’m in no mood to meet them.

  The waiting room is to my left and there’s another door to my right. I try the handle and the door is unlocked. Diving in, spilling the coffee on the floor, I close the door behind me and listen as the voices stop.

  What the hell are they doing here anyway? As if I didn’t know. Another murder and I’m on the scene.

  The room I’m in is for storage – small and shelved on three sides. Mostly cleaning products. I slide to the floor and wait.