Beyond the Rage

by Michael J Malone

  Kenny owned a number of pubs and cafés throughout the city and it was in one of these that he arranged to meet Ray McBain. He chose one that was in a quieter part of the city and one that was ‘owned’ by a faceless corporation. None of the employees knew he was the boss and he could visit without causing a stir.

  It was called The Blue Owl and was originally offered to the Glasgow punters as a bar where jazz and blues musicians could jam and congregate. The ‘owl’ part was presumably to denote the late-night nature of the venture. Which was a bit of a misnomer because it failed to get a licence to sell alcohol beyond midnight. The business never quite got off the ground; the musicians decided they were too hip to be seen this far from the city centre and the owner was forced to sell. The building remained a bar, but despite the best efforts of an array of eager landlords it wobbled from one cash-flow crisis to another. Until Kenny and his ‘company’ took over.

  Strangely, these new owners managed to make a success of the business without increasing the footfall.

  • • •

  Kenny was on his third Glenmorangie – ice and water – when McBain turned up. Reading what Kenny was nursing before him, he ordered the same. The barmaid took enough time from her dedicated reading of Real Lives, Real Loves magazine to pour him a measure.

  While she was temporarily busy, Ray looked around himself. He took in the low ceilings, the soft lighting, the giant saxophone over the bar and the two other customers, who were tucked away in far corner. By the way they were sucking the face of each other he guessed they were in love.

  ‘Right, buddy,’ the barmaid said, sliding the glass towards him. She was tall and stringy, with cropped packet-blonde hair and wearing a black blouse and skirt. Her expression was as devoid of personal expression as her clothing. Bored to distraction, she named the price.

  ‘Charmed,’ said Ray, holding his glass towards her and toasting her complete lack of it. She threw him a twisted smile and went back to her tale of the man with two heads who married the woman with three hands.

  He placed his glass on the table, sat on the chair across from Kenny and exhaled long and deep. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Ray said. ‘Crime never rests.’

  ‘Au contraire, my friend, yes it does.’ Kenny held his glass up, mimicking Ray’s interaction with the barmaid. ‘So,’ – he assessed his friend – ‘which part of the Luther Vandross weight yo-yo are you currently on?’ He was of course referring to the now-deceased soul singer who was just as famous for his agonised deliberations about weight on the sofa with Oprah as he was for the numerous albums he produced.

  ‘Rushing back up to being a fat bastard.’ Ray lost and gained the same twenty pounds on a regular basis.

  ‘You should get yourself to the gym, man.’

  ‘What, and deprive the ladies of all this loving?’ Ray grinned. ‘It’s not the size of the nail that counts, it’s the fifteen stone knocking it in.’

  ‘Right. Fifteen stone.’ Kenny had the good manners not to snort. ‘Talking about which, you getting any?’ He delicately enquired about the state of his friend’s love life.

  ‘Yup,’ said Ray. ‘I had sex with an actual person the other night.’

  ‘Was she blind or drunk?’

  ‘Blind drunk,’ Ray answered with a laugh. ‘She expressed her gratitude by leaving her phone number on the bathroom mirror and a pair of panties in my fridge.’ He took a sip.

  ‘You’ll have to have a shower and steam up the mirror before you can call her. Perhaps there’s a message there.’

  ‘At least I don’t have to pay for it.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything, buddy. I chose to. An important distinction. I am taking part in an act of commerce. Helping to keep the economy afloat in these troubled times.’

  ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer should send you a wee note of thanks.’

  ‘Or at the very least a tax rebate.’

  ‘You pay tax?’

  Kenny held his hand up. The pad of his thumb and his index finger barely touching.

  Ray drained his glass and returned to the bar. The barmaid actually sighed.

  ‘Customers get in the way of a hard day’s work, don’t you think?’ Ray asked her.

  She smiled an apology as if feeling a pang of conscience. She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. ‘Same again?’

  ‘You can read me like a book, sweetheart.’

  She leaned over the bar, giving him a look down her cleavage. Her breasts were so far apart and her top so low and loose he could almost see down to her navel.

  ‘Can I get you anything else...?’ she asked. The space she left at the end of her sentence a request for his name.

  ‘A pair of dark glasses?’ he said.

  She completely misread him and gave a little toss of her hair as if to say, You’ll have to try harder than that, mister.

  She served the drinks. He paid and carried them over to the table.

  ‘I think I preferred it when she was playing hard to get,’ he said to Kenny.

  ‘You just can’t get the staff,’ Kenny replied, reaching for his fresh glass. Ray was only aware of part of his various enterprises, had no idea he was the owner of The Blue Owl.

  ‘What kind of name is that, anyway? The Blue Fucking Owl?’ asked Ray.

  ‘I like it,’ argued Kenny. ‘Makes me want to stay up all night and play jazz.’

  ‘Is that a euphemism?’

  Kenny pushed back into the cushion of the chair, enjoyed the whisky that glowed in his system and they settled into silence. Sometimes you just wanted the presence of a friend without having to fill their ears with the minutiae of your day. And sometimes you want to tell them everything.

  He leaned forward in his chair and told Ray the lot: his memory of that night, his life with Aunt Vi and Uncle Colin, the letters. He spoke without emotion, relaying the facts, allowing them the freedom of the atmosphere.

  After speaking, drained like an anorexic after a feast, Kenny sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. To get the words out was enough. He didn’t need to know what solution Ray might suggest.

  ‘So,’ said Ray with a grin, ‘a man saves your life and you’ve got to listen to his whole freakin’ life story, jeez.’ He grinned. Grew serious. ‘What now?’

  ‘I find the fucker who killed my mother.’ His phone beeped. A pause. ‘Right after I answer this text.’

  11

  It was the next morning and Alexis still hadn’t answered any of his texts. He woke with the light thrusting in under his eyelids and a mouth as dry as a sandpit. He opened his eyes and squinted. It wasn’t like him to leave the curtains open. He had another look at his phone. Still no answer. Then he assessed his physical condition. Apart from the dry mouth, he felt fine. He was fortunate this was as bad as a hangover ever got for him. He threw his mobile on the bed and turned his mind to a different form of drink – coffee.

  He stretched and then lifted his feet off the bed and on to the floor. Looking at the foot of the bed, he could see that his clothes were in a pile. Struggling to remember even taking them off and uncaring that people in the tenement flat opposite might be able to see him, he walked naked into his kitchen.

  ‘Aww, bless.’ Ray was standing with his back to the window with a glass of water in his hand and looking at Kenny’s morning semi-erection as if it was the saddest thing he’d ever seen. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

  Kenny sat on a breakfast stool. ‘It’s big enough for me.’ He flipped Ray the finger. ‘You... you stayed over?’ He looked around himself. ‘Yes, I’m home. This is my place. What time is it?’

  ‘You’re not much of a boozer, Kenny. You were snoring in the taxi. I almost had to carry you up the stairs. I threw you on your bed and left you to it. To my everlasting regret,’ – he made a face – ‘you managed to take your own clothes off.’ He took a long, slow drink from his gla
ss. ‘I slept in your spare room. And it’s now...’ – he looked at his wristwatch – ‘...eight-fifteen.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What does the day hold for Mr Detective Extraordinaire?’

  ‘Kenny, I can’t hold a conversation with a naked man. Go put something on for fuck’s sake and I’ll make us some breakfast.’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Kenny. ‘Only want coffee.’ He stood up and walked out of the room, scratching his arse. He returned moments later wearing jogging pants and a T-shirt and holding his phone.

  Ray was pouring milk into a couple of steaming mugs. He looked over his shoulder when he heard Kenny walk back in. He shuddered. ‘Burned into my memory, mate.’

  ‘That’s handy. You can wank off to it every morning.’

  ‘Tell me why I’m not locking you up right now?

  ‘You want to see just how low you can go?’

  Ray opened a drawer, picked out a spoon and stirred the coffee. ‘What do you take in yours again? Ricin?’

  Kenny reached past him and picked up a mug. He took a sip and groaned with pleasure. Then he studied his phone.

  ‘I should just text her again,’ he said to himself. Then to McBain: ‘How come you don’t have a hangover? And talking about locking people up, do you not have work to go to today?’

  Ray nodded. ‘I don’t have a hangover because I didn’t drink that much. You had a good start on me if I remember correctly. And before I go I wanted to talk to you.’

  Kenny was back on the stool, slumped over the breakfast bar. He took another sip, swallowed and nodded once. ‘Right.’

  ‘Your dad’s name was Peter, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Kenny said, sitting up.

  ‘While you were’ – Ray waved a hand in the direction of the bedroom – ‘working on your morning stiffy, I was making a few phone calls.’

  ‘You were? Why?’ Kenny’s face was expressionless.

  ‘I am a detective, Kenny, it’s what I do.’

  ‘In this instance, why?’ Kenny asked. He could hear the anger in his voice and it surprised him. He felt the air between them shift and the energy shrink. He didn’t want Ray to know anything about his father. Didn’t want him to know too much about his family for that matter and this realisation shocked him. What was it, shame? He was what he was. Why was it suddenly an issue? Why couldn’t he care less what his friend thought about him and then worry about the impression knowledge of his family might make?

  ‘Fine.’ Ray gave a shrug that would be the envy of any car salesman in Paris. ‘Just trying to help.’ He drained what was left of his cup and picked his own phone from a pocket. He was fond of telling anyone who would listen that this was a proper phone. All it did was make calls. He managed texts at a push. He scrolled down a few numbers on his contacts.

  ‘I’ll just get a taxi...’

  ‘Okay,’ said Kenny, giving himself a shake. ‘Sorry. What do you know?’

  ‘Kenny, this is obviously new and very raw. You need time to make your own enquiries...’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, McBain, can it. If you’ve got something to tell me, tell me.’

  ‘Seeing you asked so nicely…’ Ray moved to the other seat at the breakfast bar and leaned against it. ‘Your dad disappeared in the early-Nineties, right?’

  Kenny nodded.

  ‘Glasgow might be a big place, Kenny, but it’s a small city. The cops know most of the bad guys. So I called a couple of colleagues to see who might remember a case where a woman committed suicide and the husband disappeared.’

  Again Kenny nodded. He’d always wondered about that. The police would have been suspicious about his father. A woman dies, seemingly by her own hand, and her husband vanishes shortly after. There must have been some sort of investigation. ‘And...?’

  ‘I’ve been given the name of a retired cop, lives out in Shawlands. Name of Harry Fyfe. Seems he was heavily involved in organised crime in those days. And if anyone heard any rumours of what might have happened it would be him. A bottle of Glenlivet is all that’s required to dislodge a few memories apparently.’

  ‘So we’re going to see him right now?’ Kenny stood up.

  Ray pushed him back down. ‘You’re going nowhere, pal.’ His eyebrows were close to his hairline. ‘You any idea what damage you could cause me if you went there?’

  They had an agreement that their professional lives would never cross. This had never been articulated, but understood from the start. Suddenly, Kenny didn’t care.

  ‘I need to speak to the guy, McBain. I need to...’

  ‘You need to take a breath and think about this.’ Ray took a breath himself as if struggling to contain his irritation. ‘Cops are gossips, Kenny. None more so than retired cops. He’ll be on the phone two minutes after we’re out that door. When he finds out that no one knows who the fuck you are...’

  ‘On this occasion, I have to...’

  ‘Kenny, you need to think about this. He’ll know as soon as you walk in that door that you are not a policeman.’

  ‘That’s shite. A cheap brown suit, a blue tie and...’

  ‘Let me put this another way. You’re not fucking going. You want the information; you have to trust me to get it for you.’ Ray was loud, on his feet and thrusting his index finger in Kenny’s face.

  12

  The house number was 32 and advertised by the burnished brass numbers on the door. The porch provided welcome shelter from the rain as he waited to be welcomed in to the house. He shook the raindrops from his umbrella; each drop formed like its own perfect universe on the waterproof surface before being thrust back into the air.

  The door opened and a middle-aged man stood before him. He was tall, with a bristle of thick white hair that was sticking out as if he had a Van de Graaff generator in his pocket. He was wearing a pair of brown trousers and Kenny could see his legs were so thin they could have doubled as pipe-cleaners. As a contrast to the width of his legs, he looked like he was hiding a medicine ball under the front of his cardigan.

  The man’s eyes were bright with curiosity and the skin of his face was tight over his bones as if it had been shrink-wrapped. He was clean-shaven and pock-marked.

  ‘You’ll be Ray McBain?’

  ‘You’ll be Harry Fyfe,’ Kenny said and held up the bottle of whisky by the neck.

  ‘Ach, you didn’t need to,’ Harry said, his face a tragic comedy of thirst and denial. ‘But it would be rude not to.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Come in, son, come in.’

  Harry guided him in to the front room, pointed him in the direction of a seat and said he’d be back in a minute.

  While the older man was out of the room, Kenny had a good look around. Every surface was so shiny he felt he could eat off it. The thick pile of the carpet had track marks from the hoover. There was one photograph on the mantelpiece. It was in a glass frame and showed a smiling couple on holiday. The man was a slightly younger Harry and Kenny guessed this was his wife.

  ‘Right.’ Harry walked back in with a pair of crystal whisky glasses and the now open bottle. ‘Somewhere in the world it’s 7pm.’ He poured, his eyes gleaming to the promise of the liquid falling into the glass.

  He handed Kenny a glass and sat down. ‘How long have you been in the polis?’

  ‘Oh, about...’ – Kenny recalled what he knew about Ray’s career – ‘...twelve years.’ He took a sip and hoped this was the right answer.

  ‘What division you in?’

  ‘Serious crime unit...’

  ‘Do you know Gavin Wilson? He was a rookie when I retired. Seems he’s headed for big things.’

  Kenny nodded and hmm’d and oh’d for a few minutes more as Harry talked about people he knew who were still in the force. Kenny tried to be as non-committal as he could. He didn’t want to be caught up in a conversation abo
ut who knew who or who worked where, and the more Harry talked the more he was convinced he was going to trip himself up. He loosened his collar. He was beginning to regret his impulse about ignoring Ray’s demand that he leave this interview to him.

  The name and the fact that Harry lived in Shawlands had been enough information for Kenny to track him down. Kenny O’Neill knew people with a wide set of skills. Once the address was found and a number obtained, a phone call to Harry and an over-the-phone introduction was enough to be given the green light to come knocking.

  ‘Listen, Harry, I’m sorry to be rude but can I ask you–’

  ‘You in a hurry, son?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No it’s just...’ Kenny sighed. He’d miscalculated. The old fella was going to realise he was not who he said he was. ‘I have an attachment to this case.’ In Kenny’s experience the best lies were the ones that stuck more closely to the truth so he took a small gamble. ‘This is a kind of favour I’m doing for my best mate. His mum and dad are both dead...’

  ‘No need to explain yourself, son,’ said Harry. ‘I understand.’ He smiled and his eyes shone a whisky glow. He toasted Kenny. ‘You’re only an alcoholic when you want to stop and realise you can’t.’ He made a face of certainty. A challenge to Kenny to refute him. ‘I could stop tomorrow. If I wanted.’

  Kenny looked over at the photograph. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. ‘That your wife?’

  Harry nodded. He stretched his mouth into the slip of a smile. He could only hold it for a moment. His eyes filled. ‘She hated my job. The long hours. How obsessed I became. She made endless plans about how we would fill our time when I retired. She even went to computer classes so she could get a computer and research holiday hotspots.’ He coughed, swallowed, but despite his best efforts to choke back his emotions a tear strayed and slid down his face. ‘She called it the interweb.’ His laugh was a short, sharp bark, like a warning of barely suppressed pain. ‘All those years together and me moaning about queues at the airport.’ With long fingers he twisted his wedding ring round and round. ‘Stupid bastard. Why didn’t I go on just one of those fucking planes?’