See That My Grave Is Kept Clean

by Douglas Lindsay

Who’d miss me?

  I know I’m not physically bristling, but I can feel it rising inside me. The urge. I can feel the urge. I want to take this fucker out on my way past.

  ‘Fuck,’ mutters Taylor, and I guess the boss, having my back as ever, can read my thoughts. He’s up and out his chair, he gets to the door, and he stands there, door held open, and now in the confined space of his office, Connor is pushed back a little, and Taylor is between us.

  ‘Go, Sergeant, I’ll give you a call later.’

  Another few seconds, but there’s nothing for it now. Now, in order to get to Connor, I’d need to fight my way past Taylor, and an ugly and unfortunate brawl would ensue, when what’s required is a clean-cut headbutt, leading to an instant felling of the tree of authority.

  And so, finally, when I move, it is quick and decisive and I just get it over with. ID card out the pocket, toss it onto Taylor’s desk, then out the door without looking at either of them.

  The open-plan has been quiet, waiting to see how it would play out, but I ignore them, the uncomfortable silence of the room, and soon enough I’m down the stairs and on my way.

  45

  SO I’M READY TO COMBUST. Consumed by rage. Bursting, fizzing, hissing, anger spitting from me, feeling like my brain could explode out of my head in a bloody, fucked up, bitter, putrid eruption. I could lay into that cunt. Headbutt him and kick him, rip his fucking face apart, tear his flesh, crush his throat. I could take on fifty Connors, I could run headlong into the fucking orc horde at Helm’s Deep, I could charge into a fucking terrorist training seminar on blowing yourself to fuck and take on every one of those fucked up, stupid fucking arsehole motherfucking murdering bastards.

  And here I am. Sitting in a car in a carpark. And all I can do is put the car in first and wait for the gate to open.

  Tightly gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, I drive round the corner, managing not to wheelspin and not to angrily throw the rear of the car out, then park in a side street, out of view of the office.

  And then, in the quiet surroundings of a small street in Cambuslang, with no one watching, and without even taking off my seatbelt, I let the rage spew forth.

  HARD TO BREAK THE INSIDE of a car. Throat sore, fists sore. Maybe I broke a bone in the knuckle of my right hand punching the windscreen. Maybe, if I wasn’t such a pussy, I would’ve broken the windscreen. Can you break a windscreen by punching it? I expect Dwayne Johnson could. Or, at least, he could in a movie. I’d have taken him on then, ‘n’ all, though things might not have ended well.

  As it is, how did it end? The anger evaporated into the car and on out, into space. And I was left, sitting there, spent and hoarse and sore about the hands and fingers. The car survived the onslaught.

  And now I drive home. Drained. Empty. Fingers tentatively gripping the steering wheel. The anger, the spirit, the fight, all of it, has been spent. Spat out, twisted and ugly and unpleasant, vomited into the ether, and now there’s nothing left.

  There are a hundred places to go, but I can’t think. For now I just need to get back to the safe haven of my old sitting room, the place where fifty per cent of the sitcom takes place. Where I can sit in silence, a drink in my right hand, and stare at an indistinct spot on the wall. Not even Bob, not even the melancholic Shadows In The Night. Because I don’t feel melancholic. I just feel nothing.

  My phone pings as I’m driving, the sound of it fills the void for those brief few moments, but I don’t pick it up.

  Go through the motions. Changing gear, accelerating, braking, stopping at lights, foot down, clutch, automatic movements. Park, in the front door, up the stairs, open the door, into the house.

  Stand in the silence of the sitting room. Aware the room smells stale. Late nights and cigarettes and alcohol. Open the window, look down at the street below.

  Where is there to go from here?

  There’s one person standing in front of me, and it’s not Connor. I may have burst my balls in rage at him, but he’s not the problem. Connor is an insignificance.

  Clayton. It’s all about Clayton. So, when I leave here, when I can finally pluck up the whatever-it-takes to go and do something other than stand staring at the street below, there will only be one place to go. There will only be one thing to do.

  Clayton has to die. That’s all.

  No one counts the seconds. No idea how long I stand here. Cars pass beneath me, a few pedestrians. There are people I recognise scuttling by, on the way to work, or on the way home from the graveyard shift.

  The phone pings again, the noise muffled in my pocket. Turn finally, look into the kitchen at the digital clock on the cooker. 09:27.

  It’s never too early for vodka and tonic. Into the kitchen, large glass, lots of ice, lots of vodka, no lemon to hand, fill the rest of the glass with tonic, first taste of the day, a long swallow, and it’s sharp and cold and bitter, and I stand there, glass in hand, feeling nothing, just me and the emptiness and the alcohol. The alcohol? The booze. It’s booze. When you’re drinking for the relief of it at 09:30 in the morning, you’re boozing.

  Finally take the phone from my pocket. Both messages from Taylor. First one:

  Write your report, have it in by 09:45. Leave town. I’ll be in touch.

  The second:

  Sergeant?

  A moment, and then I write the reply.

  I’m on it.

  Grab the laptop, sit down at the table, another long drink, open up Word and start typing, my hand moving to the glass, the glass to my mouth, slowly, metronomically, almost once every sentence.

  LATE MORNING. SITTING on the sofa, looking at the TV. The TV is turned off, I’m on my seventh drink of the morning. The vodka is having the desired effect.

  I submitted my brief report – if it could be given so grand a name – saying everything that had to be said, by 09:39, and have since been sitting in silence, only leaving the sofa to top up the drink. At some time after eleven I started eating peanuts. Not good to drink so much vodka at that time in the morning on an empty stomach. (Like it’s good to do it on a full Scottish.)

  Approaching midday, no obvious sign of intoxication.

  Options.

  1. Sit here until I’m completely wasted, fall asleep, wake up in the middle of the night feeling like shit, crawl into bed, perhaps having made a stop in the bathroom to throw up. Wake up tomorrow morning. Live. Die. Repeat.

  2. Pack a bag, get in the car, head north. Check into a hotel. Do what I’m doing here, but with a view. Probably best to not do it straight away, on the back of seven vodkas.

  3. Stop drinking. Sleep it off. Engage the case. Try to find a way to sort this out so that it ends well for me, badly for Clayton. Do the kind of thing a TV detective would do. Pull it out the bag when everyone assumes I’m screwed.

  4. Accept I’m screwed. Life, career, everything else, down the drain. Drink heavily. Find Clayton. Kill Clayton. Kill self.

  Number 1 promises long term misery. Number 2 seems too much effort. It would involve sobering up, making a decision. Number 3 seems so unlikely as to barely warrant its place on the list. Which leaves Number 4.

  Number 4 benefits everyone.

  Too late now to check a gun out of the armoury, which had been my initial plan for dealing with Clayton. Bullet in the eye. Now I couldn’t get someone at the station to sign me over a stapler, never mind a weapon.

  What are the other options? A knife. Strangling. Suffocation. Broken neck.

  I’m no trained assassin. There’s absolutely no reason to suppose that if I get into hand-to-hand combat with a man like Clayton I would come out on top. However, if I’m going to die, I really need to take him down with me. Otherwise it’d just be a waste, and there’d be nothing to stop him moving on to the next sorry bastard.

  I could do with a gun, but a surprise attack with a knife ought to do it as well. If I turn up at his door then he would likely assume I’m there for further questioning of the suspect. He’s been happy to welcome us in up
until now, and there’s no reason why it should be any different. He sees every engagement with the police as a potential lawsuit.

  Maybe he already knows I’ve been kicked out, of course. That wouldn’t be the world’s greatest shock. We’ve never really understood the full extent of his capabilities, and for all we know, never witnessed him operating at full capacity.

  Drain another glass, back to the fridge. No more tonic. I knew that after the last time, but I’d forgotten. Stare into the fridge, hoping it will make another bottle of tonic materialise, or help me find some tonic-substitute, whatever it might be. Finally close the door and turn to look at the almost empty bottle of vodka.

  Yep, time for vodka on the rocks. Mixers are for pussies anyway. Another three ice cubes, then tip the remainder of the bottle into the glass. Hey, there’s another bottle of vodka at least, so everybody relax.

  Back through to my place in front of the TV, bumping into the door frame on the way. God, that’s a stiff drink now, the second mouthful just as bad.

  Tired. Decision time. Get in the car, round to Clayton’s house, or sit here, festering in pathetic, drunken impotence. The other option, the hitting the road and getting as far away from Glasgow option, just isn’t happening. This needs to be over, and that only happens if I stay. Sitting in this seat, or heading out into the city, I need to be near to Clayton. That’s the only chance this thing ends, one way or another, and I need it to end. We all do.

  Lay my head back. Make the decision to go, with my eyes shut and the alcohol kicking in. Not the best combination. I’m not going anywhere.

  46

  WAKE UP TO THE SOUND of the door closing. Eyes flicker, finally manage to focus on the room. Lift my head off the cushion, and immediately hit by the wave of nausea and the spitting, shooting stab of a headache. Head back down on the cushion. Jesus.

  Still daylight, but then it’s June. It’s daylight until ten. It feels much later than when I passed out, but I’ve no idea how long ago that was. Deep breaths. The instant wave of nausea beginning to pass. At least I’m not going to throw up on the carpet. Just yet. Not just yet.

  Did the door close? It doesn’t feel like there’s anyone else here. Did I just dream the door closing?

  I can’t move. That intention I had, that I have, somewhere deep inside, to get to Clayton and take him out, myself at the same time, the thing I was thinking about and planning as I sat here drinking neat vodka, is an intention for a different time. A different day. A different me. This me, lying here in abject poverty of spirit, well-being and competency, isn’t doing anything to anyone.

  What was I dreaming about? Did a door close in the dream? Maybe someone came in and went to another room. They’re waiting for me in the kitchen or the bedroom.

  Lift my head again. Jesus. The nausea races back, a blinding, spurting, gargling tsunami of puke waiting to burst forth. I don’t want to be sick. I hate being sick. But it’s going to happen, and all I can do is lie here, pointlessly drawing out, into as many futile seconds as possible, the period before I throw up.

  If only Clayton was here now. If only the sound of the door closing had been Clayton coming in, and he was standing over me, gun in his hand, ready to kill me, saving me from the fucking vomit.

  And I’m off the sofa and running for the bathroom, hand clasped across my mouth.

  EMERGE FROM THE BATHROOM forty-five minutes later.

  I vomited. Sat on the toilet. Cleaned my teeth. Vomited again. Drank a lot of water. Showered. A long shower. Vomited the water. Drank more water. Cleaned my teeth.

  Finally, into the bedroom and change my clothes, head starting to get back to normal.

  Stomach is empty, I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like eating. Some more water, maybe a cup of tea. That’ll do for now.

  Stand at the bedroom window, no thought for whether anyone actually came into the house when I was awoken by the door. Look out on the same view I looked out on earlier. The same street, going about its business in the evening. Slept all day. Almost nine pm.

  So what does the rest of the evening and the night hold now? Likely won’t get to sleep, which means I’ll be up forever, staring at the ceiling, staring at the wall, staring into space. Maybe I can just sit on the couch and think about nothing. Let the evening and the night happen, let morning come, let one day end and another begin. Let Clayton do whatever it is he’s doing.

  Is he holding Dr Brady’s daughter? Let others find out. Let others go after him. Let others establish the evidence. For now I’ve got nothing. The day, the bollocking, the anger, the drink, the sleep, the puke, it’s all left me completely empty.

  Back through to the sitting room, heading for the kitchen. A cup of tea. Do the next thing in front of you, that’s all you can do. And the next thing is to make a cup of tea. The thing after that will be to drink it.

  And there I stop. Standing in the sitting room. Total silence.

  The door didn’t close by itself. The door didn’t close in a dream. The door that woke me up, was closed by whoever left the small item on the small dining table. It must have been there when I finally flew off the couch to run to the bathroom.

  It’s almost a nice touch. Under other circumstances, I might even have appreciated it on some level, tying everything up so perfectly as it does.

  It’s a box for L’Oréal Excellence Crème hair dye, number 01, lightest natural blonde. The box is empty.

  Hold it in my hands, and then set it back down on the table. Don’t bother looking inside.

  Walk to the window, look back down at the street. It’s a calling card, as much as the big fucking bat in the sky. It doesn’t make me angry, however. It doesn’t do anything to me. Much too empty for that.

  But fuck you, Clayton, and I’m sorry Eileen, and I’m sorry Dr Brady, but before I do anything, I’m going to have that cup of tea. Might as well try to enjoy it. It’ll be my last.

  47

  11:27

  Darkness has come. Darkness over everything. I stand at Clayton’s door. He knows I’m coming, so what does it matter if I put the door in or ring the bell? But since he’s expecting me, I presume the door will be open and it is for me to just walk in.

  Try the door handle, and sure enough, it’s open. Close it behind me. Stand in the silent darkness.

  Take a moment. Try to sense the place. Sense where they are. I don’t know what I’m thinking, as I haven’t really thought anything at all since I woke up. Just going through the motions, one thing to the next. Do I expect to feel them? Sense their presence? To be able to go directly to the room they’re in, using some sort of Jedi shtick?

  Take another step or two, look for the light switch, turn it on. Nothing.

  Jesus, Clayton. Having me walking around the house in the dark. How mundane, how utterly ordinary of you.

  My phone pings, the sound shattering in the silence. Despite myself, despite my indifference, despite my determination that this is nothing out of the ordinary, just a matter of my life and death, of Clayton’s life and death, still my heart jumps at the sound.

  The message could be from anyone, but I know already. Hardly need to look.

  No Sender, that’s who. No Sender.

  Open the message. It’s a picture. A woman’s face. A face burned into my head. A face I’ll never be able to forget, one I would never want to forget. That I never deserve to forget.

  How could Clayton possibly know about her? Jesus. How could he possibly have got hold of the photograph?

  There was me thinking I was dead inside, that the bastard couldn’t get to me. There was me thinking I was going through the motions. And here’s Clayton to let me know I’m wrong, completely wrong. He has total dominion. He knows things about me I would’ve thought he couldn’t possibly know. He knows where I am now. He knows what I’m going to do next. He knows how the next half hour, the next hour, the rest of our lives will play out.

  All I had was my calm indifference, and he’s removed that with one impossible picture.<
br />
  ‘Clayton!’

  Snapping into life, Sergeant? Pathetic life...

  ‘Clayton! Where the fuck are you?’

  Shouting, but my voice sounds small. Small and empty and pointless. Come on you fuck, show your face. Get on with it, get it over with.

  The phone pings again, my shoulders slump further. I can’t keep this up.

  I hadn’t been fooling myself in coming over here; I genuinely thought I could do it, that I could take care of it, whatever had to be done, no different from making a cup of tea. My foolishness came in thinking he wouldn’t be waiting for me.

  Open the next message.

  Dear God, Sergeant, you are so slow! #unbelievable The basement, my good man, the basement!

  #unbelievable. Fucking pompous arsehole.

  Mental knots, leading me inextricably towards physical knots. I can still see that face, the picture from a minute ago, the face from twenty years ago. But I have to kick the picture into the long grass, throw it out the ballpark, do some sporting analogy or other to it, and just get on with this.

  Having been all over the house during the previous investigation – when we felt so sure we were going to uncover an arsenal of smoking guns – I’ve been to the basement before. At the time it seemed disappointingly unremarkable. The basement is where you expect to find the room with the missing Lithuanian nanny, bound and gagged, or the equipment used to lead a life of crime.

  Clayton’s basement had been nothing out of the ordinary, home to cobwebs, a folded up table tennis table, and the usual litany of stored, but not discarded, items.

  He knows I’m here, he’s leading me on, something’s about to happen, so the quicker I get it over with, the better.

  To the far end of the hall, where there’s a door beside the entrance to the dining room on the right, with stairs into the basement. Phone out of my pocket again. Look down at it. Stop to think. A virtual sigh.