by Tony Black
‘There is a special treatment for boys like you, do you know that?’
He still couldn’t speak. His cheek brushed the carpet, the fibres scratched at the corners of his mouth as he called out in agony. He couldn’t believe the pain he felt. As he now remembered, his face contorted into a grimace.
Henderson stared across the Grassmarket bar, raised his pint to his mouth. His hand was shaking a little but steadied as the golden liquid in the glass touched his throat. He looked about, wondered if there was anyone there who had caught him in deep thought; they would have been able to see what he was thinking of. It was his greatest shame.
For a long time, Neil Henderson had thought he was the only person in the world to have undergone such treatment. His mother’s boyfriend had told him he deserved it and Henderson had believed him. He had felt like a truly degenerate little boy, one who required a special punishment. For some time he was a different child, he remembered how everyone had said so. He was quiet, withdrawn. There was no more trouble, for a while. He never told anyone about the trip upstairs but felt somehow, even now, that everyone should have known. It was such an awful occurrence that he felt that all grown-ups should have seen the signs, spotted them in him, and known what had happened. He simply couldn’t believe that it had happened and that no one, not a soul, had any idea of it except him.
It was Henderson’s secret, he kept it to himself. Even now.
There had been times when he had wondered about the man. He had fantasised about finding him, taking him on a little trip of his own to somewhere desolate. He had devised numerous tortures he would inflict upon him. He would tie him up, nail-gun his knees so he couldn’t move, then he would slowly remove strips of flesh from his freckled chest with a Stanley knife. He’d bludgeon his face with a claw hammer and blowtorch his testicles, before finally castrating the bastard with a cold blade. He would take his time, make sure it hurt. Make sure there was as much agony inflicted as was humanly possible by one man on another. He wouldn’t hold back.
Henderson raised his glass again, drained the last mouthful and called over the barman. ‘Hey, mate, another pint in here.’
The barman nodded, moved down to Henderson’s end of the bar and took up the glass. He returned with it fully topped up.
‘There you go. Might want to go a wee bit slower with that one,’ said the barman, leaning over to face him.
‘What you on about slower?’ Henderson snapped.
‘I mean, that’s your last in here … You’ve had a bucket already.’
Henderson looked up at the barman, he was older than him, quite a few years older than him but obviously fancied his chances. He knew he could take him, even after a fair drink, but he was still basking in his post-prison glow. His mouth shut fast; the barman retreated.
Henderson took his pint to the corner of the bar, selected a secluded table and sat down. He took a couple of small sips, it made him want a cigarette. He hadn’t yet adapted to the smoking ban, and didn’t like going outdoors for a drag. He massaged the brow of his head with his fingertips and let out a sigh.
His mind had wandered earlier; he knew why.
He didn’t like to think about the incident he had tried to lock away for so long but he had been forced to stare into the black heart of himself because of Angela. Reading her journal had raised the dead in him; but the bastard Dinger was dead, there could be no revenge now. Henderson understood why Angela had been so hysterical when she saw that item on the news the other night, the item with the body that turned up in a field off the A720. It had been a rekindling of old memories for her; but she could take revenge.
‘What was it with her?’ he mumbled; immediately checking himself. No one in the bar had heard him. He looked back to his pint glass, raised it to his mouth and swallowed another mouthful.
He had started reading her journal thinking it was going to be the spicy confessions of a teenage schoolgirl, but as he read on it turned his stomach. He felt surprised by his reaction; surely it would be natural to feel sympathy for her. After all, she had gone through the same kind of indignity that he had: an adult they should have respected had taken advantage of them. But he didn’t – he felt nothing for her except contempt. For years he had stored up his anger; a social worker had once described him as ‘self-loathing’ and the description had struck him because he knew he did loathe himself. Now he loathed Angela too, because she was no better than him. They were both worthless, but she could do something about it and he couldn’t.
Henderson took out the little mauve-coloured diary and placed it on the table in front of him. It had already started to open at the page he had creased with rereading so many times. He stared at it for a moment longer, took another sip of his lager, and then he raised the diary and read once more.
The next I remembered was waking up in the field …
There was a field on the news – it had set her off, he saw that now.
He thought back to the story from the television report. There had been a murder in a field outside Edinburgh, off the A720. He knew it was a young girl, they had said that on the television. There was no name, at least the filth hadn’t released one. He tried to remember what else had been said but all he could see in his mind’s eye was the footage from the field, the reporter all suited up and freezing by the side of the road. He cursed himself for not paying more attention. Then he cursed Angela for distracting him, arking up and having a carry on. It was her screaming and messing about that distracted him.
He picked up the diary again. None of it seemed real to him. This was a story about a teacher, some gymnastics coach, who had tried it on with Angela and ended up taking her out to a field. And now there had been a story on the news about a girl who had been murdered in the same field.
Henderson tried to concentrate, to think. It was as if the same group of disparate thoughts came back to irritate his mind like a mosquito bite.
He returned to the entry.
… I could hardly move my hands because they were tied, but I pulled and pulled to get free. I felt this fear, it was like terror in me. I tried to blot it all out – like this was all happening to someone else, in a film maybe. It was cold and I had to wee. I remember when I did wee, I felt it run all down my bum and I knew I had no knickers on. I wasn’t able to see very well at first, but I think it was just my eyes getting used to the dark like when you play hide and seek as a kid. I saw the moon first and then I saw him, I recognised the Creep straight away, he had the scratch marks on his face where I went for him. I don’t know what he was doing, just standing there and then he leant over and picked something up, it was my tights from my gym bag, he was rolling them on his hands and then he tried to tie them round my neck. I wanted to say, ‘No, go away’ but I couldn’t speak. When he leant right over I knew I had to do something or he was going to kill me. I don’t know how my hand came free, he couldn’t have tied me properly, but my hand was on a stone, a big rock and I grabbed it up and hit him on the side of the head. He fell onto me, I thought I was going to be crushed, but I wriggled out from under him. I thought I’d killed him but I just kept running and running.
Henderson turned the last page, there were no more entries. He closed the little mauve-coloured diary and placed it in his inside pocket as he stood up and headed for the door.
Chapter 17
THE DOOR’S HINGES sang out as Neil Henderson returned to the flat he shared in Leith with Angela Mickle. He hung his jacket on the hook and staggered though to the front room, belching loudly as he went. He found Angela splayed out on their filthy mattress, her works sitting on the floor beside her. He angled himself above her, swayed a little as he looked down. There was a white line of dried spittle around her mouth and her skin looked pale as whey.
‘Ange,’ he said.
There was no answer.
He leaned a hand on the wall to steady himself, tried again, ‘Ange, doll … you awake?’
He could tell she was out of it, she had shot up,
but he wanted to be sure she wasn’t unconscious. He slid his hand off the wall, kneeled down beside the mattress. As he did so he realised he had put his knee in a pile of sick. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
He pitched himself on his toes, leaned over to pat Angela on the back. ‘Ange, you all right there?’
Her back felt warm, wet with sweat. He rested his hand there for a moment longer; he could feel her lungs expanding as she took breath.
‘Fucking out for the count you are.’
He raised himself, went over to the window and stared out. It wasn’t dark yet but it would be in a couple of hours or so. He took a packet of Kensitas Club up from the window ledge; there was a blue plastic lighter inside next to the cigarettes. He sparked up, blew smoke into the room.
As he looked around, Henderson shook his head. ‘This what I came out for?’ He felt a desire to spit, ‘Not much better than the fucking pound this place.’
He closed his eyes tight as he remembered his latest stint in prison. It took him a great effort to knock the thoughts of the place out, but when he did he reopened his eyes and brought the cigarette up to his mouth, inhaled.
Henderson sat down in the wicker chair by the window; the chair had split and as he lowered himself down a stray wicker prong poked into his leg. ‘Jesus fuck!’ He snatched at the spike, snapped it in his hand. He was ready to kick out but held back; his head was spinning a little now with all the alcohol and he wanted to gather his thoughts for when Angela came around.
He knew what he wanted to say to her, he had it all planned out. At least, after catching the number 26 bus from Princes Street it had all seemed clear. When he missed his stop, after dozing off, and had to walk half the way down London Road and onto Easter Road his plan had faded a bit.
‘Could do with a fucking can.’
Henderson looked over the grimy flat, the paper peeling from the walls, the plaster blotched and stained, the curtains ripped and worn. He had been in worse, but not much worse. And anyway, that wasn’t the point. There was money to be made out there. People were always making money in Edinburgh, the town was awash with it. Flash bastards in big Range Rovers, the ones with the tinted windows that came down the Links. He had made good money off the Links, off his girls. But all he had now was Angela, and a two-grand debt to Boaby Stevens.
‘Fat fucking lot of use you’re going to be to me.’
There was a groan from the mattress.
Henderson raised his voice a notch, ‘I said fat fucking use you are!’
Angela’s head moved a little, the dirty blonde hair on the pillow was stretched out as she looked up. Henderson saw she was still spaced, had no clue what day of the week it was never mind anything else. How could he put her out to work in a couple of hours like that. Who’d pay for it?
He rose from the wicker chair; it seemed to stick to him as he got up and he turned on his heels and kicked out, the chair went flying across the room. ‘Right, come on, get yourself up,’ he yelled.
‘What?’
‘You fucking heard, you’re not lying in that pit any longer, get your fucking self up or I’ll get you up.’
Angela’s head dropped to the pillow. It was like incitement to Henderson. He reached over her and grabbed a handful of her dirty blonde hair. She screamed out as he yanked her to her knees in one firm jerk.
‘You not fucking hear me, or what?’
‘Hendy … Stop.’
‘Are you ignoring me, eh? That it?’
She raised her hands to his, screamed out again. ‘Stop it, that hurts!’
Henderson bunched a fist, ‘I’ll give you fucking hurts in a minute, if you’re not on those feet and walking the fucking Links.’
Angela dragged herself up; Henderson released his grip. For a moment she stood, naked, in front of him and then she crossed her hands over her breasts.
‘Oh come on for fuck’s sake, I’ve seen it before, along with half of fucking Leith.’
Angela looked away, turned for the door. She was unsteady on her feet, balancing herself on the walls with the palms of her hands as she went.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I need the toilet.’
‘You better not have any gear in there … I want you out on the streets tonight.’
She slammed the bathroom door behind her and Henderson slumped on the mattress. As he landed he felt something pressing in his back pocket; he clasped his cigarette in his mouth and reached round to remove the little mauve-coloured diary. He was still reading it as Angela returned. She had put on a short black dress; she didn’t speak when she saw him reading.
‘I understand, you know,’ said Henderson.
‘What?’
He kept turning the pages as he spoke, ‘About what happened with this teacher guy.’
Angela looked out the window. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘Oh, but we have to.’ He removed the cigarette, pointed the tip of it at Angela, ‘We very definitely have to talk about him, Ange.’
Her shoulders rose and fell, then she looked at the nails on her hands for a moment before bunching fists. ‘I can’t … that’s why I gave you the diary. I just can’t talk about it.’
Henderson pitched himself on one elbow; he knew he was going to have to draw what he needed out of her. He had to be cautious; if he scared her, she might bolt and she had something that was valuable to him now. ‘I never told anybody this before, Ange …’ He paused, looked at the tip of his cigarette.
‘Told anybody what?’
He looked up, met her eyes. He knew his voice had started to quiver. ‘What you got me to read here … It happened to me too.’
She shook her head, ‘It couldn’t have.’
‘I mean, not the way you describe it, but …’ Henderson got off his elbow, sat upright on the mattress, leaned his back on the wall. He started to tell her about his own experience, the one he had locked away. When he had finished, Angela was staring at him with doleful eyes.
‘What happened to him?’ she said.
Henderson got up, went to the other side of the room and took out another cigarette from the packet of Club; he offered one to Angela. ‘He died.’ The words came out flat, cold.
‘How?’
Henderson shrugged, ‘Does it matter? He’s dead. And my mam’s dead as well so who’s left to fucking tell.’
Angela lit her cigarette. She inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs and then released it quickly. ‘I’m sorry about that, but what’s it got to do with me?’
Henderson moved in front of her, placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I never got the chance to pay the bastard back … But yours you can.’
‘How?’
He pointed to his chest, ‘With me … I can sort the fucker out.’
Angela turned her gaze to the floor, ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with him. He’s as good as dead to me too …’
A huff, loud tut.
‘Ange, it’s not about you … Or me even. Remember what we saw on the telly the other night, this bastard could still be at it. You want that on your conscience, eh?’
She got up, walked over to the window and started to press the cigarette to her lips. He could see he hadn’t got through to her, she wasn’t interested. Henderson felt the desperation of his situation attach to him like a stranglehold.
‘Ange …’
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘You hearing me?’
‘Aye …’
‘Well, what do you say?’
She turned to face him. ‘What the fuck do you want me to say, Hendy?’
He crossed the floor, placed a hand on her shoulder. There was only one thing she had to say; if she didn’t he’d have to rethink his plans. ‘Just tell me where to get hold of the bastard. That’s all. I’ll take care of the rest.’
Chapter 18
DI ROB BRENNAN knew his problem: he wouldn’t play the game. He would never be one of those who faded into the background, became part of the office f
urniture. It was easy for them – the type that had no conscience or guilt attached to playing the game. Kissing the boss’s arse or denying their true thoughts and emotions were their primary responses. To Brennan, each time he succumbed was like a death in him. A part of what made him, gave him strength, simply collapsed; imploded with the defeat. He knew he had always fought back, but he wondered: with enough attacks on him – in quick succession – could he be felled? Just fold; never come back. Life was all about the blows, about the myriad knocks and how you took them. He knew it would be easier to be a wimp – a drone – but it wasn’t in him. Brennan couldn’t deny who he was and so the fear, the worry of the time-bomb going off inside him, remained. He carried it everywhere and lived in the constant presence of its slow tick, tick, tick.
Gallagher wasn’t the first to try and put one over on him; Brennan had been on the force long enough to have outmanoeuvred more than one like him. They didn’t know what they were taking on – it was no game to him. When the job is burned so deeply into a soul, it becomes more than the sum of its parts. It was more than an occupation, a vocation even, to Brennan. It was his life. He had sacrificed so much to the job that he no longer knew where the job began or ended. It was all the job. The job was everything.
He tried to put himself in Gallagher’s mindset, imagine what being on this murder squad meant to the DI. He hadn’t once heard him voice a sympathetic word for the victim, her family. Brennan knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything – there were others on the force, younger than Gallagher, who had learned to bury their emotions deep. But somehow, he had never found himself questioning anyone else’s compassion; it was assumed. With Gallagher there was a lack, a want. It wasn’t a clinical disengagement either, like he had seen the morgue workers adopt; it was as if the emotion was absent. The thought sat like a marker in Brennan’s mind; to him the job was inseparable from his emotions, instincts, feelings – he relied on them to make his way through every case. People were fickle, could spark up or alight on a completely new course at any moment – there was no predicting where they would lead you in an investigation and Brennan relied on his wits. It challenged his logic to watch Gallagher.