Madness Lies Page 17

  Things didn’t always turn out as planned. Maybe they were on their way back now. His pulse quickened at the thought. What would he do? Hide under the desk and slip out when they were asleep? Confront them and see his friend squirm, see the slapper crapping it? Hide under the bed and…? So many possibilities.

  His head torch did the job. He yawned as he waited for the laptop to start. This heap of junk just wasn’t good enough; it had to be sorted. When all this was over, and everything had quietened down, he’d bring it up. New laptop? Leave it with me. Anything for a mate.

  At last he was in. Flights to London? He felt an unfamiliar shiver of fear in his belly. Was Chris meeting Dino and Lucas? Would he tell them where Todd was? He should have confided in Chris before now. Told him that he didn’t want to be found by anyone, and certainly not by Dino and Lucas. Trouble was, he didn’t trust anyone, not even Chris.

  And he had taken the tart? What was that all about? Not exactly the type you take home to mother. Meet Sharon. She’s a junkie. Mother of teenage killer, Ryan MacRae. Widow of junkie loser, Peter MacRae. Jesus.

  Calm. Centre yourself. Deep breathing. She will not win. She cannot.

  ***

  Chapter 34

  There was music. Arms around Joe’s neck. The smell of perfume and peppermint. He was trying to shake the arms off, but he couldn’t. The face was shadowy, indistinct, as the lips tried to kiss his face, his neck, tried to get to his mouth. Carla? Wrong perfume.

  The smell changed. It was tweed and after-shave, sea-salt and cut grass. And still he couldn’t see the face. There were hands on his little childhood shoulders, a mouth whispering in an ancient tongue that calmed his heart. Tears on his face and a hand wiping them away, the skin rough but the touch gentle.

  And then it was Carla, and her face was clear. He tried to say the words, to tell her how sorry he was, but nothing would come out. And she stared at him, her dark brown eyes brimming with hurt.

  Joe pushed the covers away and tried to get up. His spinning head had him flat out again in seconds. But he had to pee; he had to get something to drink. Slowly. Gently. He tried again, and made it to his feet. The journey to the toilet was a blast, his head as light as a balloon, his legs like jelly, and his stomach threatening to leap out of his mouth.

  As he retched over the toilet he tried to remember what had happened after Tina’s lips closed in on him. There was nothing. Only Lucy rifling through his pockets in the street as the taxi engine idled. And then a desperate search for his mobile phone, and a longing to speak to Carla and tell her how much he loved her.

  How often had he scoffed at people that claimed to have been too drunk to remember what they’d done the night before? Too often. But there was much to remember earlier in the day. Mostly eyes. The betrayal in Ryan MacRae’s eyes when he discovered Joe had lied; Jimmy Jackson’s drugged, mental eyes before his backward flip into the Beauly Firth; the earnest but dead eyes of the numpties from the PSU as they asked yet another series of mindless questions that he’d already answered; and the predatory, cunning eyes of Tina Lewis.

  The clock in the kitchen said ten past seven; Lucy would be up soon. A pint of water and a couple of paracetamol would be good, but he doubted he could keep anything down. Perhaps a walk to the Clachnaharry Inn to get his car, but it was a long way, and he was probably still over the limit. Was it too early to phone the hospital?

  He decided to wait until eight. After a small glass of water and two paracetamol, he went back to bed. As his head hit the pillow, he remembered something, and he wished he hadn’t. Tina Lewis might well have been manipulative, but look how he had reacted when another guy came on to her. What was that all about?

  As if he didn’t know. Every guy in the station fancied Tina Lewis. She was gorgeous, and whenever she looked at him, Joe felt as if she could read his thoughts. It was easier not to look at her, to avoid her. He had known deep down just how easy it would be to fall for her. But how far had he fallen last night?

  At eight, he heard Lucy in the bathroom, then the kitchen. The smell of toast almost started him retching again. He could hardly bear to face his sister, far less her breakfast, but there was no point lying in bed going over and over last night, beating himself up, and dissing Tina Lewis.

  ‘Toast?’ Lucy offered him her plate with two slices of toast. Was that marmalade? It turned his stomach at the best of times. He made the sign of the cross and shook his head.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Another shake.

  ‘A bullet?’

  ‘Aye, that would do it. Do you think it’d be all right to phone the hospital now?’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘Should be. Any idea what you did with your phone?’

  It would be so easy to say he’d lost it, along with Carla and his self-respect. ‘Aye, I know exactly what I did with it.’ And he told her.

  Lucy pushed her toast away. ‘I read about that, but I didn’t think for a minute you’d been involved. I was trying to contact you all day. No wonder you were in such a state last night.’

  ‘How bad was I?’

  ‘You want the truth?’

  He shook his head. It hurt. ‘No thanks. I’ll just go and phone the hospital.’

  Carla wasn’t there. She’d gone home yesterday, in a taxi. He phoned a florist and ordered a bouquet. No, he didn’t have a clue what flowers she might like. Anything, the bigger the better. And a grovelling message of apology.

  *

  Sharon had been in some rough places in her life, but they were palatial compared to this squat. Have a seat? That’d be right. She’d just stay where she was, thank you very much, close to the door, ready for a quick exit when the smell overwhelmed her. Christopher sat, though he didn’t look too comfortable. Across from him, on an ancient threadbare sofa, Banger was rolling a joint with military precision, using a rolling block and a pair of tweezers. Would Christopher take a smoke? She wouldn’t mind a wee toke herself, in the right circumstances, but these were definitely not the right circumstances. Christopher asked Banger if he’d seen Todd recently.

  ‘Todd the sod?’ Banger’s accent was straight out of Eastenders. No surprise, really; they were in Hackney in north east London, checking out another contact of Todd’s. ‘Haven’t see him in ages, mate. Thought you two were closer than my arse cheeks.’

  Christopher hesitated. ‘I’m worried about him. He’s…he might be in a bit of trouble.’

  Banger laughed. ‘Not before time, mate. Never known anyone dodge the Old Bill for so long.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  He shrugged. ‘Few months.’ He held the joint up, turning it in his fingers. ‘You taught me that, mate. Never forgotten it. Here.’

  Sharon watched the struggle on Christopher’s face. She knew what he was feeling, probably better than he did.

  ‘No thanks.’

  Banger shrugged and looked at Sharon. ‘She doesn’t approve? That’s posh birds for you. Come back without her, mate.’

  Sharon laughed and considered pulling up her sleeves so he could see just how posh she was. But he’d mistaken her for someone decent, someone with morals. What a score.

  Christopher stood. There was something stuck to his arse. Looked like a bit of mouldy sausage roll. It fell off before he reached the door, leaving a blue and grey smear on his trousers.

  Sharon didn’t look into the other rooms as they negotiated their passage to the front door, stepping over paint tins and bricks, and circling round an old twin-tub and a cracked toilet pan. The toilet pan nearly did for her, when she glanced in and saw an enormous turd, fresh as. Backing away from it, she almost fell over the cistern lid, perched against the wall. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  Her shout aroused something in the last room, and movement caught her eye. Impossible to tell what was beneath the pile of filthy bedding, in a room with a half bricked-up window. Enough light to see the bulging ceiling and long streaks of black mould running down the walls.

  Outside, Sharon took great g
ulps of fresh air, followed by a few draws of her e-cig. She offered it to Christopher. He shook his head.

  ‘Not quite as attractive as the toke? Tempting, wasn’t it?’

  He looked as if he might deny it for a moment, then he smiled. ‘It was indeed.’

  *

  Christopher visited his mother again, while Sharon waited outside. He wanted her to come in, but there was no point. He asked her if they were all right, as they headed for the airport. She smiled and told him they were. It was just a difficult time for them both.

  ***

  Chapter 35

  Lucy was sitting up the back of the bus with earphones on. She’d refused to sit beside Joe, ‘cos he was stinking of drink. He couldn’t blame her. Every time the bus went over a bump in the road, his stomach lurched. He had a plastic bag in his pocket, just in case. He hadn’t checked it for holes, though.

  The bag wasn’t needed. By the time they reached town, he thought he might manage a cup of tea in the Castle Restaurant. Lucy left him to it. Half a bacon roll and a cup of tea later, Joe set off for the Clachnaharry Inn. It was a good thirty minute walk. Surely he’d be safe to drive by the time he got there. He dodged a couple of uniforms on Church Street, slipping into a lane until they passed. Soon he was across the Greig Street Bridge and making his way down the river side. He stuck to side-streets until he turned off Telford Road on to Telford Street. Typical – the first car to pass him was a patrol car. They weren’t looking.

  At the Muirtown Bridge, he took the canal tow path towards Clachnaharry, to give his liver a little more time to do its stuff. There were some fine boats moored in the marina, but they scarcely registered with him. He was too busy beating himself up.

  As he neared the locks, he glanced to his right and his stomach turned. In the distance, through the trees, a convoy of tiny cars were crossing the Kessock Bridge. The sun was glinting off the grey metal. It looked so innocuous. And lethal.

  At Clachnaharry there were 30mph signs in the windows of the houses. As Joe approached his car, he understood. The wing mirror on the driver’s side was hanging off. He’d parked just before the bus stop on the busy narrow road that led north out of Inverness. Idiot. He should have moved the car before he decided to drink himself senseless.

  Driving past the station on Burnett Road, he was tempted to go in and ask if Ryan MacRae had seen the light yet, but there was no point. They’d let him know if anything changed, and the only way they could do that for now was on his landline. But he couldn’t go home yet.

  *

  Either Carla was out or she didn’t want to answer the door to him. Maybe she was in bed. Maybe she was ill. As he unlocked her door and stepped into her hallway, he felt certain there was no one at home. In her bedroom, the bed was made, and there were clothes on the bed, neatly folded. Was she planning a trip? Had she already gone? He hadn’t expected her to be well enough to leave the house, far less travel.

  The doorbell rang. Joe opened the door to a massive bouquet and a pair of skinny legs. The florist had done him proud; just a shame Carla wasn’t there to appreciate the gesture. He put the bouquet in a jug of water in the kitchen, then he checked Carla’s address book and wrote down the numbers for her mother and Ronald MacKenzie. He didn’t want to phone either of them yet; he’d keep trying Carla from his home phone, and come back round later to see if she was in.

  *

  Carla’s journey had started well enough. Although the plane was smaller and noisier than any she’d been on before, she’d enjoyed the trip as far as Stornoway. It was a good day and she had a clear view of the mountains and lochs of the west coast, and the wee boats in the Minch. The journey from Stornoway to Benbecula was bumpy, with low cloud and no visibility. She saw nothing until the clouds parted on descent, revealing water of the deepest blue, and swathes of white sand. At least they had a proper runway on Benbecula, unlike the island of Barra, where the planes landed on the beach at low tide. Still, the sand would have provided a softer landing.

  Benbecula lay between North Uist and South Uist, linking the chain of islands with a series of causeways. The airport was in the village of Balivanich, on the north-west coast. It was the main hub of the island, with a collection of shops, council offices and a police station.

  Carla was glad they took a while to open the plane and affix the steps, for she wasn’t sure she could stand. She shouldn’t have come. It was a stupid idea, running away from the boredom of sick leave and the fear of her results, not to mention wanting to punish Joe for his neglect.

  It was so unlike him not to keep in touch, even though his work always came first. He’d been really worried about her in the hospital, so why would he suddenly stop contacting her? She’d given in last night and called him, but it had gone straight to voicemail. She hadn’t left a message.

  It was breezy in Balivanich, but the air was warm. As she walked towards the terminal building, she saw her cousin standing at the window, and her heart leapt. He was so like her father.

  Ronald smelled of soap and grass as he hugged her. ‘I can’t believe you’re here.’

  ‘Me neither.’ When they parted, she saw a hint of tears in his eyes. He made her sit down while they waited for the luggage, then he talked non-stop, as if he was scared that any pause would allow the tears to come.

  Ronald continued talking as he drove north. The roads had changed a lot since Carla was last here. Part of the causeway to North Uist was ‘two-way’ now. It was the same on the road between Clachan and Lochmaddy, Ronald said.

  ‘Takes the fun out of driving here,’ Carla said. ‘Though I didn’t think it very funny when Dad sped over blind summits on single-track roads, straight into the path of an oncoming vehicle.’

  ‘There’s still miles and miles of single-track – the fun’s not over.’ Right on cue, he slammed on the brakes, pulling in to the side, as a small bus bore down upon them.

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  Ronald turned right onto a narrow winding road that cut across North Uist.

  ‘What’s this road called?’ Carla asked. ‘I remember it had a funny name.’

  ‘The Committee Road. It was built to provide famine relief in the mid-19th century after the crops failed. Rather than give them something for nothing, the men were expected to work for their rations – two stones of Indian maize a fortnight.’

  ‘Sounds like something Iain Duncan Smith would come up with.’

  Carla didn’t understand Ronald’s Gaelic response, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.

  The road led them across the moor, where many of the peat banks that had once provided warmth for the island homes now lay unused. There were one or two still worked, Ronald said, but most people relied on oil these days. Not him, though.

  The view across to the tidal island of Vallay took Carla’s breath. The skyline was dominated by the ruins of a baronial-style mansion built around 1902. ‘I’d love to go there. Dad promised to take me, but the tide was never right.’

  ‘If you’re up to it, we can go. We’ll take the tractor.’

  Carla smiled. ‘That would be great.’

  As they passed the road to the cemetery, she was relieved the graves couldn’t be seen from the road. ‘I keep it tidy,’ Ronald said.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘We’ll go whenever you’re ready.’

  Carla nodded.

  Everything in the kitchen was the same. The stove and the easy chair, the lino and the bench, the boots at the door, and the pervading smell of peat. It felt so much like home that Carla cried. Ronald patted her shoulder and took her bag through to the downstairs bedroom that had once been ‘the good room’.

  By the time he returned, she had composed herself. She was looking out the window, down to the shore. The tide was in and the water was striped in gentle shades of blue and green, the long grass dancing in the breeze.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t miss the television?’ he asked. ‘It would be no bother to get one. I�
�ve been thinking about it for a while.’

  Carla smiled. ‘I bet you haven’t.’

  ‘I have, ever since I knew you were coming.’

  ‘I won’t miss it. I’ve several books to read, and I hope I’ll be up to going out for walks before too long.’

  ‘And you’ll be visiting the neighbours?’

  That hadn’t been on Carla’s agenda. Not that she’d mind, if she knew them, but the people she remembered were gone now. ‘Will they expect a visit?’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘I’m having you on. Most of them are out working all day anyway. There’s always Will, but you’ll not get much out of him.’ He nodded down the croft to a caravan near the shore. ‘He’s been living there for a while now, but we’ve hardly spoken. Walks to the shop and back for his coal in the winter. He won’t even take a lift, poor soul. Sometimes I see him sitting outside, huddled by a fire.’

  ‘Who owns the caravan?’

  Ronald shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. It’s been empty for years, since Jessie died. I don’t think she had any living relatives, unless there was a distant cousin or two. Maybe he’s related to her. Who knows?’

  Carla laughed. ‘This is not the Uist I remember. Your mother and her pals would have had his full credentials within hours.’

  He smiled. ‘Aye, things have changed right enough. All too busy working now, and then there’s the television and the internet.’

  ‘But not for us.’ Carla turned away from the window. ‘Will I put the kettle on? You can have a cup of tea and then get back to work. You better get out of those good clothes too.’

  Ronald laughed. ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ***

  Chapter 36

  There was a fly on the kitchen window. Joe tried to let it out, but it didn’t want to go. He hadn’t the heart to squash it, so he left it. A bit of company for him. He watched as it made the journey from the sill to the small open window at the top, over and over again. Each time, he willed it to find its way out, but as soon as it neared the open window, it seemed to lose focus, falling back down to the sill, and starting again. Each time it fell, he’d turn and look at the clock on the wall. Time had never taken so long to pass.