Текст книги "Riven"
Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter 41
He started the engine. ‘That give you a shock?’
She nodded. ‘More ways than one.’
‘You wondered if it might be Jason lying out there?’
At the mention of his name she winced. ‘What if he’s involved?’
‘You think he was there?’
‘He did at least know the girl. I just don’t want to jump to conclusions. I’m getting as bad as my hysterical sister.’
‘Peas in a pod are you?’
‘No chance, we’re opposites. She’s prone to melodramatic outbursts.’
‘While you’re perfect?’
‘That too, but I am calm and rational. And physically we’re opposites – she’s small and fragile.’
‘You’re not huge.’
‘No, tall. Athletic. I’m happy with it. We’ve just nothing in common.’
‘Why don’t you call Jason?’
‘Think I haven’t tried?’
‘Go round to his digs?’
She sighed. ‘Yeah.’
He indicated and turned the car into the road. ‘Let’s do it together, now?’
‘Thanks.’ She gave him the address and ten minutes later they hammered on a student residence which was deserted. Wheeler glanced at the empty flats, all in darkness. ‘I know most of the students have gone home for the holidays but I thought maybe one or two might be around.’ She shoved a note through Jason’s letterbox and a few minutes later they were back in the car and driving towards Byres Road.
Ross parked the car; they checked the Vineyard and a few of the other student pubs. Finally, Wheeler said, ‘That’s it, let’s take a break.’
Wheeler and Ross were settled at the back of the café bar. Once again he ordered food and organised the drinks. ‘You look shattered.’
‘Cheers.’
The food arrived and they ate for a few moments before he spoke. ‘Morag Bruce said there was only one glass in the living room; what makes you think Jason’s involved?’
‘I just want to be sure that he’s not in any way involved.’
They continued the conversation, exploring the what ifs, the maybes, until they had exhausted every angle.
‘And maybe it was as it looked – a poor girl who accidentally fell from her balcony after having a bit too much to drink,’ Ross suggested.
Wheeler nodded. ‘I know.’ She sipped the last of her wine. Finally she sat back. ‘Feel a bit better. Thank you for this.’
Ross polished off the last of the chips before pointing to her glass. ‘Another?’
She paused, allowed the wine to hit the spot and herself to feel normal. ‘Only if there’s more food coming.’
‘Christ, I’ll be bankrupt. Bloody West End prices.’
‘I’ll pay.’ She dug around in her purse.
‘You’re all right. Just think of it as a bribe for when I go for promotion. Having the acting DI is okay but I’d prefer it to be permanent. You can mentor me.’
She looked at the empty chip bowls in front of her. ‘Christ, if that’s a bribe for me mentoring you, you’re not aiming very high.’
He ignored the comment, went to the bar. Reordered. Glanced back at her, saw that the colour had returned to her face.
It was late when he dropped her home.
Chapter 42
It was two a.m. and the rain battered the pavement and icy drops chilled the bones of anyone caught in its downpour. Jason walked on, not caring in which direction he was headed. Twenty minutes later he found himself in the city centre. It was quiet apart from a few disparate groups of revellers looking for taxis or late-night buses. Deserted stores burned their lights brightly, illuminating gifts and items on Christmas displays. The city had closed down; streetlights cast eerie shadows in back lanes and doorways. As he walked, Jason’s jacket flapped open around him – he was oblivious of the rivulets of rain coursing down his neck, soaking his skin. His shirt was glued to him. His jeans were heavy with water but Jason was floating on a drug-induced high. He heard his footsteps squelch on concrete, marvelled at the sound. He walked down Buchanan Street, past the statue of Donald Dewar and on down to St Enoch Square. He moved quickly but wondered what it would be like to fly. He looked up at buildings and imagined soaring from the rooftops. He giggled to himself, wondered if he should call Lauren. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her? He danced across the road, moving towards the River Clyde, its banks swollen, its waters high. Ahead was the Jamaica Street Bridge, one of many bridges which crossed the river. Underneath, the arches were in complete darkness. The concrete walkway led him past a small group of jumpy addicts huddled around a short, fat dealer. Their transaction almost complete, they turned to stare at Jason. Soon, their shakes would be temporarily stilled and their lumpen shapes would rest on cold concrete or damp doorways. Jason passed some of the homeless of the city who had swaddled themselves in thick cardboard. He strolled on, smiling. He passed a statue standing high on a plinth, the figure’s arms outstretched, informing the city dwellers that it was ‘Better to die on your feet than live forever on your knees.’
Then it hit him.
Somewhere in the recess of his mind he remembered and the memory gathered momentum and rushed past the euphoria and into his consciousness and Jason huddled under the statue, blinking back tears. He couldn’t call her; she had gone. He took out a half bottle of rum and drew on it until he was gasping. Tried to stop the tremble in his hand. Failed. Cursed himself. Cursed Lauren. Mostly though, he cursed Smithy for introducing him to Stevie. Jason wondered what the fuck was going to happen to him if the police found out he’d given Lauren the drugs.
He started on again, walking and reciting curses in time with his footsteps, ignoring the wet, on and on under arches and through alleyways, always sticking to the shadows, only stopping now and then to draw from the bottle. By the time he’d reached Charing Cross and the Mitchell library the bottle was empty. ‘Fuck this.’ He hurled the bottle at the library, listening to the glass shatter as it hit the wall. He swayed. The vast building stood in front of him. The biggest public reference library in Europe was floodlit, the distinctive dome glittering against the black sky. He watched the rain batter in vain against the huge structure. Jason’s eyes filled with tears of self-pity as he whispered, ‘It’s all fucking useless. There’s no point to any of it.’
He moved off, walked down Sauchiehall Street to where it joined Argyle Street. Above him the sky was dark and heavy with rain. He reached the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, the building looming out of the dark; beyond the gallery, the spires of Glasgow University pointed to a stormy heaven. Finally Jason stopped on the Kelvin Bridge and stood, bloodshot eyes watching the River Kelvin surge beneath him. He listened to the noise of the water, imagining an underwater world where the inhabitants of the Kelvin dance an aquatic ballet on their urgent way through the city. Decided he would join them. A glance behind him; there was no one. This weather, no one was out unless they had to be. Overhead the trio of lights from the Victorian lamp cast a sombre glow. He looked up at the university buildings, shrouded in darkness. Wondered why he’d ever gone in the first place. Stared at the silent buildings, willed them to call to him. Heard nothing but the roar of water beneath his feet. Imagined instead that it was the river that was calling to him.
A few minutes and it would be over. Four minutes max if he allowed the water to take him, if he refused to struggle. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, listened to the rush and swell of the Kelvin, felt himself pulled towards the water. He put his hands on the bridge, breathed in the icy air, reasoned to himself that he was already soaking wet and so was halfway there. He stood on tiptoe and began climbing onto the bridge. Felt it slippery under his wet fingers. Felt his mobile vibrate. He stopped climbing, pulled out his phone, glanced at the name. Kat Wheeler. Auntie Kat had texted him earlier. He ignored it, stuffed the phone back into his jeans pocket and felt his stomach churn, felt the alcohol sour in his gut and then watched as his vomit cascaded into the water. He stuffed his fingers back into his pocket and grabbed his mobile, cursed loudly before hurling it into the air, where it hovered for a second before plunging into the water, barely making a splash. Jason took a deep breath and turned back towards the city centre.
DREAMER
His fingers worried at the sheet. Although asleep, he heard the noises clearly. His memory had stored them and would keep them for ever. As he slept he let the sounds overwhelm him. They began with the whoosh of the bat when it first made contact with James Gilmore, then there was the clumsy noise he made when he fell. After that there were his cries of pain, then the pleading, before, finally, the soft moan as he slipped into unconsciousness. The sound the bat made when it made contact with skin and a different sound altogether when it broke bone. Then the silence, watching Gilmore’s skin break apart and blood leak from the wounds. Hearing Gilmore’s breath leaving his body for the last time and knowing it was over. Then the silence in the room with only the distant sound of lorries on the London Road to shatter it. Lorries which were moving on, leaving the city and its dead behind. The Dreamer sighed in his sleep, his fingers stilled, their worrying over. He breathed deeply and rhythmically and dreamed of standing in a field full of sunshine and flowers.
Chapter 43
Thursday, 12 December
At five a.m. Wheeler sat in her kitchen with a cup of coffee and scrolled down the list of news articles on her phone until she found the one she wanted.
Grim had gone for a discreet heading.
Tragic Death of Brilliant Student
The body of Lauren Taylor, 21, was found late last night outside her flat near Great Western Road in Glasgow’s West End. The Glasgow University student is believed to have fallen to her death.
A dog walker discovered Lauren’s body and called an ambulance. Paramedics tried to resuscitate Lauren but she was pronounced dead at the scene. Lauren was a popular member of the university and was studying English Literature. She had also enrolled in the exchange programme at the university and had been scheduled to spend a year at an American university.
Lauren’s family are devastated by the news and have asked for their privacy to be respected at this time.
A spokesperson for Glasgow University issued this statement: ‘We are all greatly saddened by this news. Our thoughts go to Lauren’s family at this tragic time. They are in our prayers.’
Friends have also opened a condolence page for Lauren on Facebook.
But it was the photograph that depressed Wheeler. She stared at it over her coffee cup. The doe eyes, the long hair. The picture had been taken recently; she looked no different from when Wheeler had seen her in the pub with Jason. Only twenty-one with her future ahead of her. Wheeler poured the remainder of her coffee into the sink. Her stomach had curdled.
She knew it was useless but she called Jason anyway. It went straight through to voicemail. She would speak to Stewart about getting him picked up. Either he’d seen Lauren that night, in which case he needed to talk to the police, or he hadn’t, in which case they could discount him from the investigation.
She pulled on her running shoes, opened the door and headed out into the cold, dark morning. She needed to let go of her frustration about Jason and also the lack of progress in the Gilmore case, and pounding the streets was as good a way as any to refocus.
Five miles later and she was back. She kicked off her running shoes and stripped naked, padded through the hallway into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The steam rose through the air and she slathered on rose-scented oil. In the hall the buzzer sounded. And again. She heard the commotion outside. A voice shouting, calling her name. She grabbed a robe and darted through the hall and across the sitting room. She peered out of the window. Below in the street a solitary, soaked figure stared up at her. Jason.
She crossed to the hall, slammed her hand against the buzzer and tried to stop her heart from thundering.
A moment later he stood dripping wet on her kitchen floor. He looked exhausted.
‘Fuckssake, Jason, I nearly had a heart attack. Where have you been?’
He stared at the floor. Said nothing.
After a minute he spoke. ‘You didn’t answer your buzzer.’
She heard the slur in his voice. ‘Wait there.’ She ran to the wardrobe, grabbed an old sweatshirt, collected more towels from the bathroom and threw them at him. ‘Sort yourself out; I’ll put on some coffee.’
When she returned he was sitting on the sofa, sniffing.
She studied him, saw the tremor, the downturned eyes. Nothing remained of the bravado she’d seen in the pub. The night he had been with Lauren. ‘You know about Lauren Taylor?’
He nodded. ‘I heard about it from a friend. He texted me.’
‘Have you called your mum?’
‘No, not yet.’
She’d trust that to be the truth. ‘Think maybe you should.’
‘Don’t have my phone.’
She tossed her mobile to him. ‘Call her now, while I pour the coffee.’
When she came back, he’d made the call. ‘Told her I’d call later for a longer chat.’
‘Yeah?’
He nodded, ‘Yeah.’ He sipped his coffee. Said nothing for a long while.
‘So, about Lauren Taylor’s death? When was the last time you saw her?’’
‘I didn’t know her that well.’
‘Wasn’t she the girl in the pub with you?’
He stared at the floor. ‘We were just drinking buddies, like half of my lecture class. You know, just hanging out. Nothing special. I haven’t seen her since.’
She listened to the tone of his voice, to the timbre. Decided that, once again, it wasn’t authentic. Lauren Taylor had meant more to him than just a drinking buddy and she was pretty sure that he was also lying about having not seen her again. ‘You had your arm around her in the pub.’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘You were friends with her and now she’s dead and you say “yeah, so”? Were you there when she died?’
‘NO!’
‘You were buying from Weirdo; you’re already taking drugs. Why should I believe you?’
‘Only dope, I told you. Not the hard stuff.’
‘Was Lauren taking drugs?’
He looked at the floor. ‘No idea.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Really, you’ve no idea?’
He stared at the floor. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. I didn’t know her that well.’
‘Well, the cops’ll pay you a visit. Anything you want to tell me before they talk to you? Might be better for you to volunteer the info.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like if you were there with Lauren?’
‘I told you, she was just a pal and I wasn’t with her when she died.’
‘Was she suicidal? Depressed?’
‘How the fuck would I know?’
Wheeler balled her right hand into a fist but kept it at her side. ‘You were supposed to be her friend.’
Again, he stared at the floor. Said nothing.
‘Well? Lauren’s dead, and you seem very accepting of it.’
‘What do you want from me? Shit happens. I thought you of all people would know that.’
She stared at him. ‘Why didn’t you phone? I left messages. Went to your flat.’
‘I lost my phone.’ He yawned. ‘I’m shattered.’ A sly glance. ‘You going to tell Mum about seeing me with Weirdo?’
‘What do you think?’ The truth was, she didn’t give a shit. Jason was going to get a visit from the CID; that would be scarier than his mother.
‘Mum’ll go ballistic if she knows I smoke dope.’
Wheeler looked at him, couldn’t believe that he could be so naive. ‘You’ve no idea the trouble you could be in, have you?’
‘You know what she’s like. You’re lucky.’
‘That right?’ Unclenched her fist; let him rot in jail if they found anything linking him to the girl’s death.
‘Not having parents.’
Wheeler wondered who they’d send to interview Jason, or would they drag him into the station? She would request the latter. Scare the shit out of him. ‘How come not having parents is now a positive?’
‘Well, at least they’re not here to nag you.’
Wheeler stared at her nephew. What a fucking charmer.
Jason cleared his throat. ‘I need to get back home.’ He waited.
She let him wait.
He paused, looked at her from behind his fringe. ‘I’ve no cash on me though.’
Finally she got it, the hesitation, the waiting. So this was how he played his mother. Wheeler went to the door, opened it. Waited.
‘A tenner?’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve got Weirdo on speed dial, a young girl is dead and you want money?’
‘I need it. I’ve no food in the flat . . . and—’
‘And tell it to someone who gives a shit. And Jason?’
He waited.
‘I can take you to the station but it would look better if you went in yourself.’
‘But you’re . . .’ His expression told her what she’d expected: the only reason he’d come to see her was he thought that she’d protect him. Little shit.
‘Yeah?’ she looked hard at him. ‘I’m what?’
‘Nothing. I’ll go myself.’ He left, slamming the door on his way out.
She stood at the window and saw him walk head down into the rain. Saw him check his pockets then hail a taxi. Her nephew. An addict. And a liar. Fucking great.
Wheeler was still thinking about him when she reached the station.
Chapter 44
They were midway through the session. Dr Moore sat quietly, waited until Doyle settled again after his outburst. ‘So, that’s why you decided on twice-weekly sessions?’
‘Might as well get it over and done with.’ One eye blazing black, the other cold.
Moore smiled warmly. ‘I’m delighted that you’re willing to put in the psychological work, Andy. It’s sometimes painful work but ultimately it’s healthier to get it done, and then usually we can move on.’
Silence.
‘What I’m saying is you should be proud of yourself for coming to therapy and embracing challenge and change.’
‘Aye right, whatever. Let’s get on.’
‘Okay, so last time we talked about your need for people to be loyal.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Can you give me an example?’
Doyle thought about it. ‘The guys who work for me, I need to know they won’t join the opposition. I need to know that they’ll be loyal.’
‘You need to be able to trust them?’
‘Trust is mibbe taking it too far; I need to know that they’ll be loyal. End of.’
‘Has anyone ever let you down?’
‘A couple of guys in the early days.’
‘And how did you react?’
‘Don’t get your drift.’
‘What happened?’
Doyle clapped his hands together and made a sharp noise. ‘Whoosh . . . Gone.’
Moore waited.
Doyle stared at her. ‘Nothing sinister, just that they decided to . . . relocate.’
‘So you demand complete loyalty?’
Doyle nodded.
‘There’s no room for people to make mistakes? After all, we’re all human, we all mess up.’
‘You mess up, you move on; that’s my motto.’
‘Does this include Stella?’
‘Aye.’
‘So, what if Stella was to be disloyal?’
‘If she was fucking around behind my back?’
‘I didn’t mean specifically in a sexual way but okay, what if she was to have an affair?’
Doyle sat back in the chair, considered it. ‘If she had an affair then that would be it. Game over.’
‘You wouldn’t want to try to work through it? Perhaps go for couple counselling?’
‘I told you, it’d be game over. Done. She’d be dead meat.’
Moore stared at him.
He corrected himself. ‘I mean she’d be history.’
‘You wouldn’t give her a second chance?’
‘Fuck no.’
‘Okay.’ Moore waited.
Silence.
Eventually she spoke. ‘You look angry.’
‘The thought of Stella fucking around with somebody else makes me bloody angry.’
‘Okay, so we’ve established that you have a need for people around you to be loyal.’
‘Aye,’ said Doyle.
‘This was one need you identified quite quickly. Can you remember when this idea of loyalty began, when the need for it became so important?’ Moore waited, saw conflicting emotions flit across his face. Saw him struggle to find answers. Finally he spoke. ‘At the home.’ His voice small, embarrassed.
‘Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home where you grew up?’
‘Aye.’
‘Go on.’
‘What?’
‘Loyalty, what did it mean to you at the home?’
‘Like a foundation, like it was a stable thing when my life was . . .’
‘Unstable?’ she offered.
He nodded.
‘Go on.’
The anger was back. ‘Shite, it’s textbook psychobabble isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘I didn’t have a family, so I felt like I had no foundation. You know how family is always there as a kind of a foundation or an anchor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even if they’re a shite family?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I wanted to have this foundation but I didn’t have it, so I needed to create it. I needed to create a family.’
‘And how did you do this?’.
Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, stared at the wall. Moore watched the anger dissipate. Eventually he answered, ‘I made them up.’
‘Okay, how did you do this?’ she repeated.
‘There were boxes of old photographs in the TV lounge at the home, a load of shite mainly, but I liked looking through them.’
‘Because?’
‘Because there were loads of pictures of families, and in the pictures they were all standing together, arms linked and smiling into the camera. Rubbish stuff, but I liked it.’
‘Why did you like it? What was it that appealed to you?’
‘Fuckssake, you’re the therapist, is it not bloody obvious?’ Anger again. Knuckles beating against leather and chrome.
Moore blinked, watched Doyle, finally asked, ‘So why don’t you tell me then?’
‘I used to look at the photographs and fantasise that those families were my family and that they’d had to go away for different reasons, but they would come back to collect me. Loads of stories, one to fit every photograph. Over the years I made up a million stories about families who all wanted me as their son.’
‘What kind of families did you create?’
Doyle drummed his hand on the side of the chair.
Moore waited.
‘Christ, this was Glasgow in the eighties and I was in a fucking children’s home. I made up a family that were so far away from the dysfunctional cunts that I saw around me. All the fucked-up shit on offer, I didn’t want. I wanted smooth, clean, powerful people to be in my family.’ He peered at her. ‘I suppose you think I’m nuts. Do you even get this?’
‘I get it. So who was your favourite fictional family?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘You know.’
Silence.
Finally he answered, ‘A mismatch of characters from the telly.’
‘Okay, but who? A mismatch of which characters from the television?’
Doyle stared out of the window, eyes calm. ‘They were outsiders mainly, kind of like me. Folk who didn’t fit in but didn’t give a shit. Folk who did it their way.’
‘Who?’
‘I feel stupid saying.’
‘You were a child in a home – why would you be stupid to imagine a family? That’s what you’re here for, to sort things out before you decide about having a family yourself.’
‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I watched a lot of telly – it was the eighties, remember?’
‘Go on.’
‘I imagined my family would be kind of like the A-team. Folk with the balls to change things.’
She noted the grey pallor, the hopelessness in his voice as he revisited his childhood. ‘Why was that so important?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘Because you couldn’t change things?’
‘Not then.’
‘But you can now?’
‘I used to sit in the stinking TV lounge and watch the A-team and plan what I would do when I was an adult. I’d make a list of people who’d pissed me off and figure out ways of getting revenge on them.’
‘Do you still have the list?’
Doyle nodded. ‘I’ve managed to . . .’ he paused, ‘delete a few names over the years. Then again I’ve added a few.’
‘Recently?’
‘It’s an ongoing process.’
‘And do you still want revenge on these people?’
‘It’s pretty much what makes life worth living.’ Doyle glanced at his watch. ‘Time up, I’m out of here,’ his voice suddenly energised, his eyes sparkling, one darker than the other. He stood, straightened his jacket and strolled towards the door.
‘Time up,’ agreed Moore, but the door had closed behind him. She sat for a few moments. She noted that Doyle’s body language had confirmed what she had suspected, that he felt most alive when he was engaged with the idea of exacting revenge. Moore knew for certain that she had found Doyle’s passion and understood that it was this that had propelled him from a children’s home into adulthood and the semblance of a successful career. She was in no doubt that Doyle was withholding information about his business and that he had the demeanour of a man of violence, but, she reasoned with herself, that wasn’t why he was in therapy. He had come to confront his demons, to let go, to move on. He was ambitious and wanted to enter into what he called ‘acceptable society’ and maybe have a family, knowing that at present, in his own words, he ‘stuck out a mile’. Part of Andy Doyle craved acceptance and wanted to fit into a society he mistrusted. He wanted to leave the poor, orphaned boy behind, but that would be difficult. At their initial meeting Moore had been clear about the boundaries of the client/therapist relationship and he understood that if he told her anything that compromised either himself or another individual she may have to contact the police. So far this hadn’t happened, but Moore wondered about the spaces between the words and what had been left unsaid.
She’d told Doyle that in order for therapy to be successful there were certain requirements, including self-reflection, challenge and ultimately the desire for change. At the time he’d seemed confident, excited even about the possibility of change; now, however, she wondered about him. Was Andy Doyle willing to do what was required to make those changes?
