Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  The situation Malkie had created didn’t suit anymore. He’d pushed his luck staying so long with old Billy and knew it. The police hadn’t come close to catching him, that much was true, but he was still in Glasgow, still wanted for murder and still on the run – no further forward than he’d been the night the nosey cripple got what he’d deserved. Since then, he’d had sex just twice, both times with prostitutes picked up in Blythswood Square on his rare nocturnal trips into the city centre: the first, with a girl who ought to have been doing her school homework, was short and anything but sweet; she’d moaned as soon as he touched her, kissing his neck, whispering she loved him.

  Fake as fuck.

  And if it was bad, the second time was worse. The girl wasn’t a girl – fifty if she was a day with a wedding ring on her finger. They’d gone into a lane behind the town houses turned offices, near a skip overflowing with rubbish and cats. Three minutes later, he was walking down West George Street on his way back to his grandfather’s, still horny.

  This was an important night and he was on edge. O’Rourke should’ve been there. Across the road, the door of the pub opened. A man came out, looked directly to where Malkie was and didn’t see him. Mr Fucking Magoo. When he’d gone, Malkie lit another cigarette, blowing smoke impatiently through his nose. If O’Rourke was taking him for a mug, he’d regret it. His father’s garage was a run-down shack on a piece of open ground near the railway line to Helensburgh. Ten-to-one the dump wasn’t insured. Easy to torch it. Oil burned a treat.

  Music drifted from inside the pub. Some idiot had Ava Max: Sweet But Psycho on the jukebox. Vinnie was about to discover just how apt that was.

  Vincent O’Rourke turned the car into the street. Boyle stepped from the shadows, squinting into the Citroen’s headlights. He got in and turned his anger on the mechanic. ‘Your old man came this close,’ he measured the distance with his fingers, ‘this close to losing his garage. We said nine o’clock. What kept you?’

  Vinnie held up his hands, black with grease. ‘Was working on this thing until twenty minutes ago. Thought you might appreciate collecting it in tip-top condition.’

  ‘What’ve you got me? It better be good.’

  ‘It’s better than good: 2013 reg, 44,000 miles on the clock, full tank, cleaned and serviced. Get years out of it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two eight.’

  ‘You owe me two hundred?’

  Vinnie wanted to tell this arsehole to stop dreaming: four hours trailing round to find the thing, another four servicing it and tinkering with the engine to make sure it was giving everything it had. Not counting a morning at the auction and a bloody long wait in a queue at the post office. This was the thanks he got.

  ‘Don’t bother asking if it’s insured.’

  Malkie laughed. ‘Couldn’t give a toss, Vinnie, it’s your car. All I’m doing is taking a loan of it for a wee while. If there’s a crash, it’s your door they’ll be knocking, mate. Now, fuck off out of it. And don’t forget, you never saw me. Otherwise I might change my mind about your old fella’s crock shop.’

  O’Rourke disliked Boyle more than anyone he’d ever known, and like most people who were unlucky enough to cross his path, was afraid of him. That said, fear had its limits. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a mobile. Malkie took it without bothering to thank him.

  Vinnie said, ‘Pay-as-you-go. Put a tenner in it to kick you off. Do me a favour, don’t use it to call me. I’ve done my bit.’

  The lights were on. She was home. Malkie decided to wait a bit longer before making his move, and drove on. At ten minutes to midnight, he was back, holding the steering wheel with one hand, The Famous Grouse with the other. He parked the Citroen round the corner behind a green Volkswagen with two flat tyres and a huge dent in the passenger door that had been allowed to crack and rust. Whoever owned the Beetle was obviously not acquainted with Vincent O’Rourke. Malkie took a swig of whisky and slid the bottle into his jacket pocket.

  Getting the car had relaxed him – he was in a party mood. All he needed was the girl.

  The street was lined on either side with buildings three storeys high, their walls covered in graffiti: caustic messages, written in code understood by those it was intended to impress or intimidate. Further down, a boarded window, its edges blackened where heat exploded the glass and flames had licked the grey roughcast frame, caught his attention. A common sight in this neighbourhood. Probably some alkie had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand, or left the chip pan on. Old Billy might go out like that – his still-smoking body welded to the charred skeleton of his armchair, staring at the corner where the television had been.

  Malkie’s footsteps echoed in the empty entrance. He lifted the letterbox and peered into the hall. Nothing to see. Was Paula in there on her back with a man on her? Or had they finished and were on the couch, sitting together watching a movie? Whoever he was, he’d get off his mark if he knew what was good for him. This was between Malkie and her, and was overdue.

  He knocked and waited. Noise from inside told him she was coming up the hall. The door opened a cautious fraction. The look on her face said he was the last guy on the planet she’d expected.

  He threw his arms wide. ‘Paula! Long time no see!’

  Paula and Kirsty had gone to the same school, started on the same day and left on the same day. Having children before she was eighteen to a husband who’d never had a job and spent most of his time hanging round outside the bookies with his mates, guaranteed Paula a hard life. Compared with the rocky road her friend’s had taken, it was easy. Paula’s man was a work-shy loser who’d shirked his responsibilities and deserted his family, leaving her to bring up two kids under three by herself. But whatever his shortcomings – and they were many – he wasn’t Malkie Boyle.

  Malkie moved towards her. She stepped back, aware the future had just changed and not for the better. He hugged her without a shred of tenderness, whisky on his breath, kissing her neck. ‘That’s no way to welcome an old friend, eh? Come here.’

  He guided her down the hall into the living room and closed the door behind them. ‘We’re going to have a wee chat, you and me. About old times. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

  Malkie didn’t rate Kirsty’s pal in the looks department – not enough meat on her – but she was different from how he remembered. Lit by the standard lamp in the corner, the face framed by her dark hair was pleasant enough, the tits were bigger than he remembered. Her legs were definitely worth spreading. All in all, not too bad. Or maybe it was so long, what a woman looked like didn’t matter.

  He sat on the couch, pulled the half-bottle out of his pocket and unscrewed the top.

  From the armchair Paula watched, terrified, thinking about her children asleep next door, already sure how this would end for her.

  Malkie’s eyes burned. ‘Never liked me, have you?’

  She started to deny it – he held his hand up to silence her. ‘That’s all right. I’m okay with it. To tell the truth, never fancied you much either. Warned Kirsty you were a bad influence. The lying cow told me she’d stopped seeing you.’

  Paula found her voice. ‘What do you want, Malkie? Why’re you here?’

  ‘Why am I here? Good question. For a smart girl you’re not very smart, are you? Somebody turned Kirsty against me – I don’t mean you, though Christ knows you tried often enough.’

  He saw her reaction and smiled. ‘Think I didn’t know? Those hushed conversations in the kitchen that stopped as soon as I showed up. ’Course I knew. The reason I told her to get shot of you. Well, one of them.’

  ‘We weren’t always talking about you.’

  ‘Yeah, you were. You were, Paula, and we both know it, so don’t waste time lying about it. Can’t stand a split-arsed scrubber insulting me with her rubbish.’

  The bottle came out again. He played with the top, savouring his power. Those tits were definitely bigger. ‘But that last time, it wasn’t you. Wouldn�
�t be surprised if you were in there somewhere, putting in the poison, but it wasn’t you.’

  He took another pull on the whisky. ‘Take your top off. Let’s see those melons.’

  Paula pleaded with him. ‘Malkie, please. My kids are next door.’

  ‘They’ll have to wait their turn, won’t they?’ He laughed at his joke. ‘Take the fucking thing off and let the dog see the rabbit.’ He leered. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to come over and do it.’

  She loosened the line of buttons at the front.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon. Don’t be a tease.’

  The blouse fell open. She sat with her head bowed, filled with a shame not her own.

  Across the room, his voice was hoarse with lust. ‘That’s the form. Now the rest. And don’t rush. Not like we’re in a hurry, is it?’

  Terrified fingers unfastened the hook between her bra’s cups.

  ‘A front-loader.’

  The bra parted and she heard him gasp, his eyes ravishing the plump uneven breasts, taking in the dark red areolas and the nipples at their centres. Then he was beside her, feeling and fondling, breathing whisky in her face.

  Paula turned her head away as wet lips closed round her left nipple, his thumb and forefinger squeezing the right. He swapped over, panting, his touch rough enough to make her cry out. Suddenly, he stopped and went back to his seat. She drew the blouse round her, glad it was over, if only for now.

  ‘Very nice. Your husband didn’t appreciate how lucky he was or he’d have stuck around. We’ll come back to that later. First things first. You were about to tell me who got to Kirsty.’ He held up an admonishing hand. ‘And no bullshit. She must’ve told you how angry that makes me.’

  According to Kirsty, everything made him angry.

  ‘Don’t want to see me when I’m angry, Paula.’ He helped himself to more of The Grouse, screwing his face up at its harshness. ‘You really don’t, believe me. So – no fucking about – who was it? Who am I looking for? I’ll tell you now, he’s a dead man.’

  The words wouldn’t come even if she’d wanted them to.

  ‘I… I…’

  Malkie sat on the edge of the couch, leaning into her. ‘The last time I spoke to her, she promised to meet me outside Barlinnie. Some bastard turned her against me! Who?’

  A child cried out in the bedroom – his raised voice had awakened one of her kids. Malkie smiled. Paula whimpered, even more afraid than she’d been. The children were all she had, the most important thing in the world to her. This monster would hurt them. She couldn’t let that happen. Telling on the detective was the last thing she wanted to do but what choice did she have? If she warned him and Boyle found out, he’d kill her and the kids. No way was she going out like Kirsty.

  ‘He’s a policeman. A detective.’

  ‘A name. I need a name.’

  ‘Geddes. DI Andrew Geddes.’

  It sounded familiar.

  ‘He was the one who persuaded her?’

  Now both children were crying.

  ‘No, not him. Kirsty didn’t trust the Social. He was just trying to help.’

  ‘Help her get away from me, you mean? She wouldn’t trust the filth. No chance. So who else?’

  ‘A woman.’

  He grabbed Paula’s nipple and squeezed it. Paula didn’t want to tell him – she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘She runs a refuge near Lennoxtown. Kirsty liked her.’

  Malkie’s breath was vile; whisky fumes and stale cigarette smoke choked her. He slapped her face hard, spitting questions through his teeth. ‘Who is she? Who the fuck is she? Tell me her name, bitch!’

  ‘Darroch. Mackenzie Darroch. Now let me go to my children.’

  He positioned himself between the bedroom and the front door so she couldn’t make a break for it. Her whispers travelled up the hall. Gradually their mother’s voice worked its magic and the crying stopped. When she came out, he was waiting, holding the empty bottle, his eyes glazed, and Paula knew that for her there was no escape. She didn’t resist. What he did to her wasn’t important so long as her children were safe.

  He took her hand, led her into the bedroom and started to undress her. When his fingers touched her bare flesh, she recoiled.

  He was too drunk to notice how he repelled her. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

  33

  What they’d done in the Clackmannan countryside would live with Mackenzie, Caitlin and Sylvia for the rest of their lives, yet in the morning, the sun came up as usual and life went on. Weird. The buzz in the refuge, especially in the mornings, made it easier than Mackenzie had imagined it would be to act normal. Irene cooked pancakes as part of a massive fry-up – they wouldn’t last long; the women may have lost many things, their appetite for maple syrup, fried eggs and crispy bacon wasn’t one of them. Caitlin and Mackenzie didn’t make eye contact, both remembering standing naked in this very room hours earlier with Sylvia’s questioning eyes on them. The truth wasn’t something they would’ve ever volunteered. Confessing it released them. Not that Sylvia had given them much choice.

  Mackenzie would’ve been happy to never see Mrs Thorne again. The last thing she needed was a reminder of the cottage and what she’d done. The tiny lady had other ideas, on the phone insisting they meet, refusing to say why.

  Sylvia announced her like visiting royalty and showed her into the lounge where Mackenzie was waiting. The coat, scarf and gloves were the ones Emily had worn on her first visit. Her clothes might be the same, Emily Thorne was different – relaxed, no longer the fraught person she’d been. Mackenzie feigned pleasure when she came through the door and they shook hands. Through soft leather, she felt the same fragile fingers inside the glove.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better. Much better.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Has something happened with your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, rather a lot, actually. Judith’s in hospital. The doctors say she’ll be there for some time.’

  Mackenzie kept up the façade. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s happened? Is she ill?’

  ‘Ill, no. Damaged would be a more accurate description.’

  ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘With love and care, I hope so. She’s been through a terrible ordeal. Everything I told you, everything I suspected, turned out to be true. He was keeping her prisoner. Locked in a wardrobe so she couldn’t escape.’

  ‘How horrible.’

  ‘We don’t know why because he’s dead. Somebody killed him. You must’ve seen it, it was on the news?’

  ‘I don’t watch the news.’

  ‘Judith was in a bad state, not close to being well enough for the police to interview her. She spoke to me.’

  Mackenzie’s heart stalled in her chest; she fought to sound natural. ‘What did she tell you?’

  Every day of her life, Mackenzie talked to survivors of abuse and the people close to them. There was a way to do it – it took skill – this wasn’t it, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘She isn’t sure. She thought she heard voices. Female voices.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was confused. At first, they seemed far away. Then they were closer. Inside.’

  Judith hadn’t been confused. She’d heard them at the window and later when they’d burst through the front door. What kind of agony had she endured while they returned to the refuge to get cleaned up before driving to Central Station to guarantee the call to the police remained anonymous and untraceable.

  ‘Wouldn’t they have got her out? Nobody in their right mind could leave her. It would be cruel.’

  Disbelieving eyes fixed on Mackenzie.

  ‘When the police found her, she was undernourished and incoherent.’

  ‘Not surprising after what she’d been through.’

  ‘She’d been beaten. Often. For fun.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell me they were playing Scrabble wh
en the police followed up your accusation? You were angry and frustrated because they said they were satisfied everything was okay.’

  ‘He’d guessed I’d go to them and had it all set up to look normal. Whatever else, Jack Walsh was clever. Evil man that he was, he never hit her face.’

  ‘So, the police couldn’t tell what was really going on.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They still hadn’t sat down and Mackenzie was no nearer knowing why Emily Thorne had been set on coming to the refuge. ‘I appreciate you telling me. Judith’s lucky to have you. I’m sure she’ll be okay.’

  ‘She will. I’ll make sure of it. When the doctors say she’s well enough, I’m taking her home with me.’

  Mackenzie nodded. Mrs Thorne was a good mother, though she was unaware what lay ahead for her daughter: the sleepless nights; when her eyes finally closed, the nightmares, and the crushing dread rising from nowhere, choking, paralysing, refusing to go away. A hard road, maybe without end. She wished them luck – they’d need it.

  Mrs Thorne turned to go. The entire conversation had lasted minutes.

  At the door she spoke in her small voice. ‘You’re wondering why I drove all the way out here, aren’t you?’

  Denying it would have been futile. Mackenzie tried. ‘Judith isn’t the only one who’s been through an ordeal. It’s been pretty tough on you too.’

  Emily Thorne didn’t disagree. ‘Yes, it has. Nothing like my daughter.’ She smiled. ‘It’s quite simple. I came to thank you. And please don’t worry, you won’t see me again.’

  It was afternoon and they were in the garden. Caitlin was smoking, listening to Mackenzie retell the conversation with Judith Thorne’s mother. When she got to where Emily Thorne thanked her and promised she wouldn’t see her again, the cigarette dropped from Caitlin’s fingers.

  ‘She knows. She knows we were there.’

  Mackenzie heard the panic in her voice and spoke to reassure her. ‘She thinks we were. She can’t prove it. Nobody can.’