by Max Hardy
‘Are you alright Bentley? You seem worried? Is there something in the files troubling you?’
He let out a long sigh, then leaned back in his chair, putting his hands into the pockets of his stained, hair covered Mac and pulling it tight around him.
‘You shouldn’t have done it, but thank you for taking the flack on that. Shankers doesn’t need an excuse to bollock me at the best of times. That might just have tipped her into kicking me out of the door.’
‘First off, I’m the fucking officer in charge, so if my team screw up, I screw up. Secondly, I’m the fucking officer in charge, so I put my team first.’ she retorted with an affectionate smile.
‘Touché, as the French twat would say. You are learning girl, you are learning. Quickly on some things, not so fast on others. I told you the raid was a bad idea. They will just close ranks and we won’t get anything out of them, but give it a go. At least it is a lead and we might figure out if Rebecca Angus fits into this somewhere too.’
‘I’m just following my gut on that, I don’t mean to belittle your advice, but I think we have to try: and less of the girl, it’s Ma’am to you.’ she jibed before continuing more seriously. ‘You sure you are alright?’ she finished as her mobile bleeped in her pocket. She fished it out and scanned a text message as Bentley answered.
‘Just thinking it all through Ma’am, just thinking it all through. What do you want me to do in organising the raid?’ he asked. It was Tait’s turn to be distracted now as she read the text.
‘Is that bugger lugs boyfriend giving you grief again?’ he asked instead when she didn’t answer his first question.
She looked up with a vacant expression on her face. ‘Sorry. Yes. No, don’t worry about it. My problem. It’s like looking after a petulant kid.’ she answered, still distracted as she turned her back on Bentley while texting a reply.
Bentley’s phone buzzed then also. He rummaged around in the pocket of his grubby Mac and pulled it out. It was an old battered Nokia 3330, grey with a small green screen, the words ‘New Text’ displayed. He clicked on the ‘Messages’ menu, a puzzled look crossing his features as he saw the message line with no phone number next to it. He clicked on the message and opened it.
All colour drained from his already pallid face and almost instantly beads of cold sweat popped out of his brow, sidling down his forehead. His top lip started to quiver in tandem with the hand holding the phone, the words on it shaking to a point where they were almost unreadable. Almost.
There were only two words: ‘We Know.’
Chapter 16
Jacob and Sarah, Sarah and Jacob. Their images are just swirling around my mind. Snapshots of moments, different times, some good, some bad, but all with eyes that are accusing. I know it is my own guilt. Now I know that Jessica is Madame Evangeline, they are reminding my mind, they are screaming in my mind. It’s not just the guilt of knowing I have killed them. It’s the guilt of knowing that I have thought of just about nothing else other than Jess and they have been on the periphery for the last two weeks. I’d like to think that it is because the pain of losing them is so great that my mind is distracting me from thinking about them. I’d like to think that. But I know it is not true. The reality is I felt more pain in losing Jess, I feel pain still at the thought she is still alive. My mind just wants to know why. No, sorry, my mind needs to know why. They are still on the periphery, accusing me.
I knock on a nondescript black door up a side street in Leith, the entrance to ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’. A small hatch opens about head height and a guttural voice from an unshaven mouth asks ‘Card’. I pass it through the hatch and after a second the door is opened. A rotund black suited man looks me up and down, taking in the leather trousers, white t-shirt and leather jacket I am wearing. I must pass muster as he steps to one side and lets me past. Behind the door there is a coat rack and in front a corridor about five metres long with another nondescript black door at the end. There is a small opaque pane of glass in it at about head height, strobe flashing through it. I approach the door, an audible bass vibrating the handle as I open it, the full crescendo of a disco tune battering my eardrums as I enter the club.
Dry ice floats thickly around the floor, diminishing in intensity the further up in height but still blurring the large room. Apart from the strobe flashing, all other lighting is very subdued, almost non-existent, only the outline of things and people visible as my eyes adjust.
Then my eyes adjust. It is just as Rebecca described it. Goth Disco. Naked people everywhere, in every conceivable state of copulation. Why the hell haven’t they closed this place down? I walk through the writhing bodies, paying them little attention. I know where I have to go, to the booths out the back, past the bar. A woman, petite, blonde and naked approaches me. I avoid eye contact, but that doesn’t stop her throwing her arms around my neck.
‘Darling, long time no see, how have you been!’ she slurs, obviously drunk as she forces her pert breasts into my chest. I take a step back, gently grabbing her hand from my neck and firmly directing her back off me.
‘Sorry, I think you have the wrong person.’ I answer, pirouetting around her, leaving her standing, confused.
‘Wrong person? Sorry. Could have sworn you were Adam.’ I hear her mumble after me as I step through the curtain into another dimply lit corridor, curtained entrances down the right hand side, neon numbers above each. Why would she think she recognises me? Is this somewhere my doppelganger frequents. Is he called Adam? Adam and Evangeline. Adam and Eve. Forbidden Fruit. A Serpent and temptation. What the hell has she tempted me into now?
I stop dead, looking down the corridor at the number eight, at the distinct tones of black and darkness brought to life by the glow of the neon. I panic. Jesus John, what are you doing? Have you even thought that this is another trap, another temptation? Have you thought of anything practical, such as what you are going to say to a dead woman who has been haunting you for the past two weeks? Have you? Or are you just bothered about why me? Poor me, why did you do it to me? Why?
There’s a bigger picture here John, a much bigger picture and you aren’t seeing it. You aren’t letting yourself see it. No I’m not, because the woman I loved -no love-, the woman I thought was dead is behind that curtain. The most important thing now is to talk to her. The most important thing now is to try and understand. Get a grip John.
Anxiety eats away at my stomach causing it to churn while approaching the curtain, the sound louder than the dulling beat of disco as I stop in front of it and take a long, deep breath, trying hard to regulate my breathing, to calm my fractured mind.
I pull the curtain back and step into a small space with a red faux suede chaise lounge sitting in front of a glass window looking into a small room, the whole floor of it taken up by a bed. A bed with a woman in a black leather catsuit sitting on it in the lotus position, legs crossed, hands resting on the knees palm up. A woman with red hair, her head tilted down slightly, obscuring her face from my line of vision.
‘Jess?’ I question timorously, my voice breaking on the ‘ss’, sounding sibilant. I walk around the chaise lounge and sit down on it, now at the same height as the woman. I am able to see more of her face. Her eyes are open, her emerald eyes, looking down at a point on the bed in front of her. Her face is heavily made up, a thick coat of foundation, very dark mascara and shining cherry lipstick. Her lips move.
‘The first time I saw her was on that Chaise Lounge. I was masturbating, watching two women on this bed pleasuring themselves. She pulled the curtain back, stuck her head in the room and watched me play with myself in the windows reflection. Then she came in and pleasured me and in that moment, my life changed forever.’
Her head rises, contours and angles of her features morphing as they move through the shadows and she looks so much like Jess, but I see slightly sunken cheeks, echoes of scarring under the makeup and as I look down at her upturned palms, the ravages of her self harm are all too evident. Rebecca Angus. Anxie
ty washes away, to be replaced by crushing disappointment married to instant curiosity.
‘Put your palm on the window John.’ she instructs, staring straight at me now, warmth and compassion flowing from her sparkling green eyes. She looks so alive and vibrant as she leans forward and puts her hand against the window. I do too, my shaking digits matching up with hers. She looks at the plasters on my injuries, head tilting to see.
‘Together, we wear the scars of her love, for all the world to see. What they don’t see are the scars in the mind. What they don’t see is the torment. What they don’t see is the dichotomy. She took us both to a place where we lost everything, where the only way to cope with the utter devastation is death itself: yet we still love her.’
My lips quiver, emotion welling up from deep inside, devastating pain I have kept buried, knowing I can’t cope with it. Her words, simple words, resonate through my whole being. She knows exactly how I feel. She knows exactly how I feel because she has been there too. Tears flow from my eyes, snot from my nose and I cry, uncontrollably.
Rebecca is crying too. She uncrosses her legs and moves closer to the window, pushing both hands hard against it. I fall to the floor and do the same, clawing at the glass to try and hold them, to touch her, to physically share the grief.
‘I need to understand why she did it. I need to look her in the eyes and understand why. I hoped she was alive, I thought you were her. I thought that I would be asking her those questions right now. But I guess all those times I thought I had seen her, it has been you? It was you at the hotel this afternoon, it was you in Jacob’s bedroom yesterday and it was you in the crowd in Newcastle. All you?’
‘All me. But don’t for one second think that means she isn’t alive. Don’t for one second think that while I have been watching you, she hasn’t been watching you too. That she hasn’t been watching both of us. That they haven’t been watching both of us.’
‘They?’
‘I know him as Ben Hanlon. You know him as Rob Adams, or perhaps the ‘Unknown Caller’, or possibly your twin brother?’
‘How do you know that, about the twin brother thing, that’s not been on the news? I only found that out yesterday.’
‘I’ve been inside your house, I’ve read all the evidence on your studio walls. I’ve seen all the tapes you have, of the time I spent with Ben Hanlon. You even have the white mobile she gave to me. Why didn’t you hand those things over to the police? Why didn’t you tell them about the tapes he made?’
I take a hand off the window and wipe the snot and tears from my eyes with my t-shirt, quickly returning it to partner hers, not wanting even the illusion of contact to be broken. Do I tell her why? Can I trust her? I don’t really know who the hell she is, as much as we share a common pain. Am I letting emotion overwhelm my judgement again?
‘You don’t have to tell me John, it’s not important. I realise it may be hard for you to trust me, after all, I am still officially a murderer and a fruitcake on the run from the police. I could still even be Madame Evangeline.’
My face must look guilty as hell right now. How did she know that was what I was thinking? I know she isn’t Madame Evangeline.
‘I know you aren’t Madame Evangeline. I have seen all of the tapes Hanlon recorded. I have seen what you went through. I know that you were played. The same way I was being played. This is personal. I don’t know why it’s personal and I believe that the police won’t fully investigate the things I have seen because of that. They have no reason to. At the moment, they think she is dead. There is no official record on any system, anywhere of a Ben Hanlon or a Rob Adams as we knew them. To the rest of the world, they never existed. It’s down to me to find out why.’
‘Down to us. I’m in the same position John. I have no idea why she turned me into this person you see in front of you: a Madame, a dominatrix. I have no idea why she made me fuck my son. I have no idea why Ben Hanlon led me on a road to redemption, why he took the time to bring me back from the brink. I want to know, I really want to know. More than that, I want to know why they are still watching us, why they are still playing us.’
‘What do you mean, still playing us?’
She doesn’t answer, but moves her left hand off the glass slightly, leaving a finger touching, which snakes down the glass, tracing a line on the reflection of my forearm. She circles at a point and then stops it.
‘Press the flesh of your arm about there.’ she instructs.
Bemused, I do as she asks, pulling up my jacket sleeve and pressing my thumb into the soft of the flesh.
‘Can you feel anything? It will feel like a small lump, gristly with a bit of give.’
I can. I push it around slightly to see if it is just a caught nerve, but it moves with my thumb.
‘I have one too. I found one in my arm a few weeks ago, just after Ben left, just as I was deciding whether to give myself up or try and find out who he was, just as I was self-harming, again. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I had it checked out. It is how they know where we are. It’s a tracker.’
How? How the fuck have they managed to get that inside me. I stare at the imperceptible lump with incredulity. My mind reels, literally, images of moments start to flash through rickety doors, of sterile white rooms, of metal beds with crisp cotton sheets, of sharp needles, of white wimples. Through the images I hear screams. Rickety doors start to crack. Of injections, of incisions. Thumping of running footsteps join the screams which are getting louder, people rushing past outside the curtain. Of pain, of excruciating pain.
Someone yanks back the curtain forcefully. I turn, surprised to see Bentley rushing into the room, Tait just behind him, both of them wearing Tactical Response Vests. They both stop suddenly, equally as surprised at seeing Rebecca and I in the room.
‘Don’t move, this is a raid.’
Chapter 17
‘Shit that’s her. That’s Rebecca Angus!’ Bentley shouted, striding toward the window as Rebecca smiled from behind it, blowing a kiss towards him as she started to retreat out of the room.
‘Get around the back and stop her getting away!’ Tait ordered, Bentley caught in two minds for a second, one part ready to thump the glass, the other to thump Saul. Instead he fronted up to Saul who was standing and putting his hands in the air.
Bentley thrust his head into Saul’s face, noses a millimetre apart, spittle forming on his angry lips. ‘Red hair, leather catsuit, S&M Club. Rebecca Angus. Now try telling me she is not fucking Madame Evangeline!’ he spat vehemently.
‘Bentley, this isn’t the time for a pissing contest, she is getting away. Now get after her.’ Tait screamed the order, grabbing Bentley’s arm, yanking him away from Saul.
‘I should punch your fucking lights out right now.’ Bentley finished, Saul standing calmly and taking the abuse. ‘Stuck up cunt!’ he finished as Saul refused to react.
He turned and ran from the room, shaking Tait’s hand off his arm, shouting at her as he did, ‘I’m going, you just make sure you cuff this fuck.’
Tait approached Saul, her demeanour forceful, her tone stern. ‘Turn and face the window Sir and put both hands on your head. You have some serious explaining to do.’
Saul did as instructed and Tait took one hand after another from his head and handcuffed him behind his back. She grabbed the cuffed hands and pulled him unceremoniously forward, pointing him towards the entrance to the room.
‘Fairly easy to explain. I take it you are raiding the place to try and find out if there is anyone here who knows about the ‘Fallen Angels’. It’s a good shout. Elvis Aarons worked here, you have a connection with Madame Evangeline. By the way, Bentley is so wrong about that. Rebecca is not Madame Evangeline.’
It was chaos in the corridor. Naked people were being chased by police, some had been caught and were either forced against walls being restrained, or pinned to the ground. Screaming and shouting permeated the confined space. Tait walked Saul through the terrified clientele, into the main room,
where the vista continued, couples being decoupled from copulation by embarrassed police officers, blankets being handed out to those already restrained. More still being chased. She joined a procession of Officers leading those already captured out of the club and into waiting police vans in the alleyway.
‘Whether she is or she isn’t is not the important thing at the moment Saul. Why you were here meeting her is much more important given that she could be a prime suspect in our case. Now, get in the car, I’m sure Cruickshank will want to talk to you personally.’ Tait opened the rear door on the car and forced Saul’s head down over, pushing him into the back seat.
Tait turned and looked up and down the alley, through the multitude of flashing lights, through the myriad of police officers trying to force protesting, blanketed people into the vans, to try and see Bentley. She cursed under her breath, not seeing him anywhere.
‘Good work everyone.’ she said to the officers who were starting to gather around the vans as they deposited their suspects. ‘Now, let’s start getting them back to the station and get them processed and questioned. There are ten interview rooms and a dozen detectives ready and waiting for us. Campbell, make sure you lock down the club as soon as everyone is out and leave a team here until forensics are finished. They should be here any time soon.’
The officers started to disperse, jumping into the full vans and heading off to the station. Tait scanned the alleyway again, then saw Bentley struggle around the corner at the far end, bent double, holding his chest. She ran towards him quickly, concern screaming across her face.
‘Bentley, are you alright? Did you get her?’
She reached him and helped him to stand, his face ruddy and sweating, his body shaking in the aftermath of exertion. He was panting heavily, not able to gain his breath and certainly not able to speak. He shook his head vigorously, waving a hand back around the corner and tried to string a few words together.