Beyond the Rage

by Michael J Malone

  ‘Like she’s going to let me read it. She’s not even let Dad read it.’

  ‘That would all but kill the old fucker. He’d be desperate–’

  ‘He doesn’t even know about it,’ Ian continued and Kenny whistled. That was something. For her to keep something from her husband. When he found out, there would be hell to pay. He’d whine about it until he gave them both ulcers.

  ‘Time?’ asked Kenny.

  ‘Oh, it’s...’ He heard a rustle and the next words that came from Ian sounded distant. Like he’d placed the phone away from the side of his face to look at the time. ‘...It’s three thirty.’

  ‘Naw, ya numpty,’ said Kenny. ‘What time tonight?’

  ‘Six o’clock, ya numpty. When else?’

  ‘Aye. Right enough.’ It was a standing family joke that Uncle Colin had to eat at six o’clock sharp. It didn’t matter what else was happening, where they were or who they were with, Uncle Colin had to be sat at a table with a fork and knife in each hand and a plate heaped with meat and two veg in front of him.

  ‘Afore you go, Kenny... if you can see your way to having some stuff...’

  ‘I don’t do drugs, Ian. I’ve never dealt them and I never will.’

  ‘Not since that last time.’

  That last time.

  There were few career choices for a man like Ian. Too full of testosterone as a teenager, he’d messed up. The army offered a way out. A way to grow up. He revelled in the command system: having someone to tell him what to do and when. He’d gone all around the world and loved it. Then came Afghanistan. He’d returned a changed man. From nice, aggressive and simple, he became nice, addicted and simple. ‘That last time’ referred to two years ago. The doctors prescribed methadone. He ran out of the stuff and tried to go cold turkey. It nearly killed him and Aunt Vi had begged Kenny to get her boy a fix. He’d done what she asked, saved Ian’s life and earned Uncle Colin’s hate for the rest of his life.

  ‘It’s just a wee bit of weed, man. My usual guy has gone and got himself arrested...’

  ‘That’s cos it’s fucking illegal. Not to mention fucking stupid.’

  ‘Don’t need the lecture, dude.’

  ‘See you at six,’ Kenny said and hung up.

  2

  Mason Budge was, by almost every physical measure, Mr Average. Unless you looked closely. The waist was a little tighter, the shoulders a tad broader and his movement just that bit more languid.

  His hair was clipped short, his beard fashionably trim and his eyes wore a shine and a joyful camber that made people warm to him instantly. That was their first mistake.

  The girl answered the door to him with a smile. She clearly thought it was her last visitor returning for something. Her mouth formed a moue of surprise when she didn’t recognise him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her head tilting to the side, her eyes narrow with curiosity. There was no fear yet. She was in her own home. Nothing could happen to her here. Her confidence turned him on. For all the wrong reasons.

  Mason loved her voice immediately. French or something. He hoped he would get the chance to hear more of it in the coming few minutes. Or hours. Or however long it took.

  ‘Sure you can, darling,’ he said and pushed past her.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ she shouted. ‘I’m calling the police.’

  ‘Sure you are, darling.’

  The carpet was satisfyingly lush as he walked down the hall to what he could see was the lounge. As he walked she was shrill in his ear, now alert to the danger. She didn’t run, though, and he admired that.

  ‘Shut up, sweetheart,’ Mason said.

  She did as she was told. A punch on the face tended to bring compliance, he found. When dealing with women Mason always went for the face.

  The woman slumped to the floor, crying softly.

  ‘Now listen up, babycakes.’ Mason loved to use endearments in his line of work. He really appreciated irony. ‘I have a message for you.’ He picked a BlackBerry from his pocket and held it before him.

  ‘It says, Teach the bitch a lesson. Be as creative as you like.’ He paused and looked into her wide eyes. ‘Don’t you prefer it when people use, like, proper words when they text?’

  3

  A couple of hours to go before he’d to go over to Aunt Vi’s. Kenny drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. What should he do to pass the time? He looked at the clock on the dash to see the time. Would he be able to squeeze in a workout down the gym? He hadn’t been since the day before yesterday and he always got a bit scratchy if he didn’t go regularly.

  Some hard work later and he was refreshed and ready to face the world. Well, Uncle Colin and Aunt Vi. He’d worked through an hour’s cardio on various machines, thirty minutes free weights and then ten minutes on the speedball. The Mixed Martial Arts guys he trained with said it was a good tool for co-ordination. A quick shower and the endorphins were sending their version of bliss through his mind and muscles.

  Back in the car and he checked the messages on his phone before heading off in the direction of Milngavie. One missed call.

  Alexis.

  He debated whether to ignore it or whether to follow it up. He really needed to go and see what this letter was all about and if he ended up going to see Alexis it would be a couple of days and several sets of sweaty and soiled sheets later before he surfaced again. That girl sure knew how to party.

  His mind, and his groin, stirred back to the day they first met. It was a reception in the hotel called Malmaison. A prominent councillor going by the name of Liam Devlin, that Kenny had performed a number of favours for and who in turn could help earn Kenny a sheen of respectability, had invited him to a reception. A deal had been brokered on behalf of the city. Kenny had been in place to take some compromising photographs of the head of the delegation and this had been the deciding factor in his councillor pal winning the deal.

  He was bored out of his tits when he saw Alexis. She’d been in among a group of men at the bar, all of whom were in various stages of salivation, from licking their lips to a string of drool. He watched these successful and important men being reduced to a heavy pulse and surging testosterone levels by an artful smile, toss of the hair and an articulate raise of the eyebrow.

  She was wearing a dark blue trouser-suit that managed to meet the conventions while suggesting at the wonders of the body that lay beneath. It didn’t so much as hug her curves as whisper of their promise. And every man in the room was listening carefully.

  Something made her move her attention from the man who was speaking to her. She turned to face Kenny as if aware he had been watching her all along. She slid a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and smiled at the fuckwit who was talking to her. Then she adapted her view so that she could see Kenny again. He raised an eyebrow and turned away.

  He walked over to the table where a buffet had been set up and placed a solitary vol-au-vent in the middle of a plate. A fucking vol-au-vent. What was this, the Seventies? Then he walked along to where the drinks were. He picked up a glass of Prosecco and slid it onto… what could it be called, the winegrip?... on the side of his plate.

  ‘Whoever thought of these wee winegrip things,’ he said to the waiter who watched like a sentry over the food, ‘...was a genius.’

  He felt someone brush by his arm as they reached for a glass. He knew it was her. He picked the vol-au-vent from his plate, took a bite and turned to her. As he chewed he appraised the large amber eyes and the delicate tilt of her chin.

  ‘Mmm, gorgeous,’ he said.

  ‘Not a little bit too cheesy?’ she asked.

  ‘You can never have enough cheese,’ he grinned.

  She looked him up and down. ‘Nice teeth, all your own hair, oh...’ – she took in his flat belly – ‘...and no paunch. Who are you and what have you
done with the nice Glaswegian who should be here?’

  ‘You speak perfect, but slightly accented English. Your clothes have a European look to them. You seem to be actually interested in what some of these puffed-up peacocks have to say. Who are you and what have you done with the nice Glaswegian who should be here?’

  She laughed, her head tilting back, her teeth flashing.

  ‘At least one of us is from Glasgow,’ she said.

  Kenny shook his head. ‘I’m from Ayrshire. What are you, French?’

  ‘Swiss.’

  ‘Is everything in your life ordered and precise?’

  ‘I’m Swiss-Italian. Much more relaxed. What about you? Do you conform to the cliché of the west of Scotland male?’ She placed the rim of her glass against her bottom lip.

  ‘Let me see...’ He looked to the ceiling as if searching for the right words. ‘I hate rugby, love football. Hate beer, love wine. I exercise regularly–’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Shh, don’t interrupt when I’m impressing you.’ They laughed together, his deep notes of amusement folded among her light song. ‘I floss twice a day, don’t talk about my feelings ever, but I cry like a girl when an athlete collects his gold medal at the Olympics. I hate deep-fried Mars bars and I love it when I have a beautiful woman’s undivided attention.’

  ‘And I love it when a non-conformist conforms.’

  A man coughed at their side. He was in his mid- to late-fifties, sporting a gleaming set of teeth and wearing his large belly like it was a badge of success.

  Alexis offered him a smile and faced Kenny.

  ‘Excuse me,’ – she placed a hand on his forearm – ‘I am otherwise engaged this evening. It has been a pleasure talking to you. I hope your work with the council goes well.’ As she walked away the big belly guy took a grip of her arm and Kenny could hear him saying, ‘What were you talking to that guy about?’

  ‘He was just keeping me amused while you were talking business, Tommy.’

  As Kenny watched them getting closer to the bar, he saw Tommy move his mouth to her ear. She shrank back as if he had issued some sort of threat. Or maybe that was what Kenny wanted to see, for in the next moment she was whispering something in his ear and they both laughed.

  For the rest of the evening, Kenny kept an eye on them, trying to work out what their relationship was. That it might be, or could be, sexual in nature became apparent as the evening wore on. At least that was how Tommy clearly wanted it to be judging by the way his great paws couldn’t stop touching her, but Alexis’ behaviour never ratcheted up beyond mildly flirtatious.

  Eventually, Kenny mentally slapped himself on the forehead as he realised the truth of the situation. How could he not? He waited until Tommy walked off, presumably to go to the toilet, before approaching Alexis again.

  She was wearing an expression that was one part quizzical, one part wary and several parts amused.

  ‘Do you have a card?’ Kenny asked her.

  ‘But of course,’ she answered with a tilt of her head. She opened her purse and delicately picked one out and handed it to him.

  He read the gold embossed lettering on white card. All it contained was her name and mobile telephone number.

  ‘Very discreet.’

  ‘Of course. I find that you Brits are a little less accepting than the Continentals in these matters, but even more... needy.’

  ‘I think I must be more Continental when it comes to negotiable affections,’ he replied before pressing his lips to the card and placing it in his breast pocket.

  A smile from Alexis aimed over his shoulder alerted Kenny to the fact that Tommy had returned. He brushed past Kenny so hard that he had to put a hand on the bar to steady himself. The older man stood beside Alexis.

  ‘I think we should be away now,’ he said, completely ignoring Kenny.

  People had lost a few teeth for less, but remembering where he was Kenny decided to let it pass. Now was not the time for violence. In a loud enough voice to carry along the bar, Kenny addressed the couple. ‘Tommy, it’s so nice to hear that you’ve recovered from the prostate surgery. Hope it hasn’t affected you too much.’ He shook the other man’s hand with enough pressure to crack a knuckle. ‘You treat this young lady well, okay?’ He laughed with exaggerated heartiness. ‘Cos if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down.’ With a wink to Alexis, who was struggling to hide her mirth from Tommy, Kenny turned and walked away.

  He was met at the door by Liam Devlin. The smaller man walked towards him with brisk steps. Ever the politician, airbrushed with the certainty of his position in the world; his suit and tie looked as fresh as they undoubtedly were first thing that morning. ‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked Kenny.

  ‘No. Don’t care.’ Kenny grinned at his own petulance.

  ‘Tommy Hunt is not a man to mess with. He knows people.’

  ‘I’m happy for him. I know people too.’

  ‘Dangerous people, Kenny.’

  ‘Wooo.’ Kenny laughed and made a face. He then sobered and looked Liam squarely in the eye. ‘I am dangerous people.’

  He called Alexis the very next day. They arranged a meeting that night and partied vigorously for two days. The sex was tender, it was hard. They fucked like animals, they giggled like teenagers, they lingered, connected at the groin for hours. It was fun, it was furious, it was expensive and it was worth every penny. And by the end of the two days Kenny was in a place he had promised himself he would never be.

  He was in love.

  • • •

  She’d left him a text and a message. That wasn’t like her. She normally left all the running to him, after all he was the one who was paying for it. The text was an address that he had never visited, but one that he vaguely recognised. For her to leave him a voicemail there must be something wrong. He thought about the other message that was waiting for him, the letter from his father. He desperately needed to know what was in that letter. His Aunt Vi had kept a hold of it all this time, so why now? He’d had many birthdays between eighteen and thirty, why was this one so important? What level of maturity had she imagined he’d reached that would allow him to process whatever the letter contained?

  Curiosity won in the short term. He pressed dial on the phone. A voice told him he had one new message. Before he could decide whether or not to listen to it, the message came on line and Alexis’ voice filled his ear.

  ‘Kenny. Please call me. It’s urgent. Please. You know I wouldn’t...’ There was a suppressed sob and then the call ended.

  4

  He typed the address from the text into his sat-nav and soon he was on his way down St Vincent Street and headed towards the Merchant City.

  This is one of the oldest parts of the city. In medieval times it was dotted with orangeries, rose gardens and the odd merry monk. Now it’s an area of bars, clubs, boutique hotels, concert halls and very expensive apartments.

  One of which contained a weepy, but hopefully unhurt escort girl. By some minor miracle, Kenny managed to park his vehicle at the secure entrance to Alexis’ flat. He locked the car, walked the half-dozen steps to the buzzer and pressed. As he waited for an answer, he looked around him. There was the odd couple strolling arm in arm. The occasional passing taxi and a plethora of parked cars. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. He peered in to some of the cars nearest to him. Just in case. But no one seemed to be lurking in wait for an over-protective punter.

  ‘Hello,’ a tinny voice issued from the speaker at the side of the door.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘It’s Kenny.’

  The buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open. Kenny hated lifts, so he took the stairs. As he ran up, taking two at a time, he tried to imagine what state Alexis might be in; the reason for her upset and why he was the one she turned to.

  Six floors later and he was breathing easily. Fit
and strong is the new black, he thought as he knocked on her door. She opened it immediately, offering him a weak smile and enough time to see she was wearing no make-up, her hair was badly needing a wash and the heavy bruising down one side of her face.

  She turned and walked down the passageway into her living room. Kenny was full of questions, but he knew Alexis well enough to know that she would come round to the answers in her own good time.

  She folded herself into the corner of a giant brown, velvet-covered sofa and fixed her eyes on the fifty-inch plasma TV, where Billie Piper was doing her thing. Despite his need to know what the hell was happening, Kenny couldn’t help but look around the room. Although he had been ‘seeing’ Alexis for over a year now, they only ever met in hotels. This was the first time he had actually been allowed in to her refuge.

  It was classy. As he expected. Large colourful prints hung on the cream walls, the curtains were luxurious fabrics, and the furniture was sparse but clearly expensive.

  ‘Whenever I need to laugh with irony I watch this crap,’ Alexis said, nodding at the TV.

  Billie Piper was whipping some guy on a bed. He was wearing nothing but a shirt and tie. Kenny shook his head, indicating he had no idea what they were watching.

  ‘It’s Belle Du Jour. She’s a call girl and she makes it look like it’s all glam and no pain. That your soul doesn’t get sucked out of your body every time someone pays you to suck their cock. That the Pretty Woman myth is alive and well.’ Alexis chewed the inside of her lip and crossed her arms; her right hand slowly began stroking her left shoulder. She looked down at her lap and then up at Kenny through her fringe.

  ‘Sorry. You didn’t need to hear that.’

  ‘What the hell happened, Alexis?’

  She bit her top lip and looked into the distance. Elements of her real character played across the stage of her eyes. Kenny read pride warring with consequence; uncertainty tinged with self-loathing.