Beyond the Rage (12 page)

22

‘Hey cuz, how’s it hangin’?’

‘What the fuck do you want, Ian?’ snapped Kenny while he negotiated a roundabout with his mobile trapped between his ear and his shoulder. When people pulled him up on this habit, his answer was that Bluetooth headsets made you look like a wanker and he
’d
rather pay the fine thankyouverymuch.

‘You fuckin’ phoned me, mate,’ replied Ian.

‘Oh,’ said Kenny, remembering. ‘So I did. Sorry, buddy.’

‘Aye, so you should be...’ Ian tailed off. ‘You in the car? You’re not hands-free, are you? Don’t come crying to me when you break your back in a car crash, mate.’

‘Why don’t I save us both the hassle and hang up then, eh?’

‘Well, I
’d
certainly feel better about it,’ Ian said.

‘Fuck off, Ian. For a dope-head you’re very law-abiding all of a–’

‘Hanging up, Kenny. Catch you later, bye.’

The phone went dead. ‘Bastard.’ He picked it from his shoulder and ended the call. The prick had a point, he supposed. He
’d
thought for a second the call had been Alexis.

Still no word from her.

How must she be feeling? She
’d
be in a state.

He was working himself into a frenzy. Where the fuck was she? If he had a ‘normal’ girlfriend, the most he would ‘normally’ have to worry about was her getting lost between the hairdresser and the nail salon. This is what happens when you get in tow with a working girl, O’Neill. There is a downside to that uncomplicated sex thing.

His sat-nav announced, ‘You have arrived.’ He was home.

He parked and wondered how he had made it home without causing a ten-car pile-up on the Clydeside Expressway. He could barely remember the last twenty minutes’ driving.

A young couple walked past the controlled entrance to the foyer of his building. They were a typical young Glasgow couple living in this part of the city. Collar to toe in designer gear. Surprisingly for any part of the city, they were both stick-thin. Give them time, Kenny thought. Her hair was brown and straightened to a hair-advert sheen. His head was shaved and his face looked like he
’d
glued some iron fillings on to it.

They had been arguing. The man was staring ahead of him, giving nothing back while she tried her best to puncture his eardrums with her voice.

Kenny got out of his car and locked it with his remote. As he walked past them the woman was completely uncaring of his presence and continued to shout.

‘You’re a liar, Davie. I saw you looking at that woman. Your eyes were locked onto her tits, Davie.’

Davie had clearly given up trying to defend himself and sought release in a Zen-like countenance and a pace that was carefully judged to give her a more than a little trouble in her high heels.

Inside his flat, Kenny made straight for the espresso pot. Coffee made, he took a seat on his sofa, picked up the TV remote and aimlessly clicked through some channels.

He didn’t want to watch celebrities, singing, dancing, dancing on ice, birdwatching, pretending to be down-and-outs or pretending to have a life so he switched it back off. He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the sofa. He looked around himself at his flat that managed to be both clean and untidy at the same time. Several times each day he told himself he should take more care of his home. Several times a day he told himself to get real. Some boys’ toys, a sofa, a bed, kitchen and toilet – what more did he need? Every now and again he
’d
buy some flowers from a supermarket and put them on display. After a couple of months he
’d
notice they
’d
dried out to husks and should be replaced.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. Where the hell was Alexis and what the fuck was going on?

He thought about the dead girl and what McBain told him about her death. Her throat had been cut. It takes a particular kind of killer to do something like that. If it was a professional job, a silencer and a shot to the brain would have done the job. This was a man who enjoyed his work.

Kenny took a sip from his espresso. He wondered if it was the guy in the Toyota. He tried to bring his image to mind and couldn’t. He could state colouring, approximate height and build, but his facial features were a blur.

Toyota man had raped Alexis twice now. He had no evidence to suggest both events had been carried out by the same man, but something told him this was the case. The first time was his ‘job’. The second time, no message was delivered. If Alexis hadn’t jokingly called Kenny an animal or if he had just got ready for breakfast after his shower, neither of them would have realised that anything untoward had happened.

The man had a taste for Alexis, Kenny thought. The visit to the hotel room was for his own sick pleasure: nothing to do with his work. He was messing with them both. And if this was the same guy who murdered the girl in the flat, he was someone to be very wary of.

Kenny tried to picture him again. He shook his head with frustration. It was like trying to catch your reflection on a plate of brushed steel. Enough was showing to suggest a face, but not enough detail to indicate who the face belonged to.

And he
’d
spoken to the evil fucker. If only he
’d
known. Kenny clenched a fist. He knew fighters and in retrospect this man was definitely a fighter, but he could take him. Easy.

He stood up, walked through to the toilet for a piss. When he was mid-stream he heard his mobile phone ring. He dribbled down his trouser leg as he rushed to finish and zip himself up.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Izzat Kenny O’Neill?’

Kenny couldn’t recognise the voice.

‘Aye. Who’s this?’

‘It’s’ – cough – ‘Mark Donaldson. You told my brother Calum he should call you when he was looking for some work.’

Kenny screwed his forehead up in thought. Mark? Calum?

‘We’re the’ – cough – ‘road-ragers you came across... you crocked my brother’s knee.’

‘Oh. Right. How is the knee?’

‘Aye, no bad, mate,’ said Mark, becoming more confident. ‘Turns out it was just badly bruised. The ligament–’

‘I told Calum to call me.’

‘Well... I thought that... he’s the quiet one and–’

‘I’ve got your number now, Mark. So if I have anything, I’ll get in touch, awright?’

‘Yeah, that’s cool, Kenny, cos we can do anything you need. Bouncer–’

‘Hanging up now, Mark.’

‘Right. Okay. Bye.’

Despite himself, Kenny realised a grin was stretching his face. Mark could be annoying but he liked his energy.

He was about to put the phone in his pocket when a ping signalled the arrival of a text. Alexis. His stomach twisted and he read the message. It was a short series of numbers and letters with a space in the middle. Thinking how odd it was, he read it out loud. What the fuck did it mean? He read it out again. It was a postcode.

23

The M74 looped ahead of him in the gloom. Even at this time of night the main route from the west of Scotland down into England was busy. Plenty of buses, trucks and even caravans. Kenny guessed that most of them would be either going on holiday or carrying out some form of work duties. Not too many of them would be on a mission of mercy to save a prostitute.

Something to be said for living a vanilla lifestyle.

He studied each of his mirrors and tried to work out if any of the cars behind him had been there for any part of his journey. He had deliberately varied his speed over the last thirty miles – driving at eighty miles an hour, reducing to half that and speeding up again to see if any cars stayed with him. None had that he could see. He had paid particular attention to Toyotas.

Although, if it was Yaris guy, he
’d
know that he had been spotted the last time and would change to a different make and model.

You’re a killer for hire and you drive a modest car. Why? You want to blend in; you don’t want to be spotted. Perhaps the thrill of killing is such that material possessions mean next to fuck-all for such a man.

Kenny liked cars, but he didn’t like attracting attention, which was why he went for the Ford. It has all the toys he wants, a ride that’s baby-butt smooth and it blends in.

He looked at the more affordable cars around him. Fords, Vauxhalls, Renaults and so on. Nothing stood out. Nothing shouted,
Hey, I’m harbouring a psycho
. And nothing looked like it had been on him for any length of time.

He checked his sat-nav. Only twenty-two miles to go. It indicated that he should be leaving at the next exit. Doing as he was told, he was soon on a twisting country road. Sometime later he read a road sign with the legend
Welcome to Sanquhar
.

He wasn’t sure even how to pronounce it. Where the fuck was he? Even in the fading light he could see that this was, or had been, a prosperous town. Large sandstone houses, a row of shops, then as he stopped at the traffic lights he spotted a sign on a building that said it was the oldest post office in the world; with a date of 1712.

The sat-nav urged him forwards and the road narrowed where a very old building edged into the road. As he waited for the oncoming car to pass, he looked at the architecture of the building. The outside stairway leading to the first floor, and the turret, dredged up a word from Scottish history lessons: Tolbooth. These buildings were centuries old and served multiple purposes – town halls, courts and debtor’s prisons. And, if the locals cared enough to preserve them in modern times, they were often some form of museum.

He drove past and he was pointed to the next on the right. From there, a left and the computer voice he had nicknamed Morag issued welcome news: ‘You have arrived.’ Every time he heard that from Morag, it tickled him. Sometimes he even felt like applauding, but tonight he was too distracted and anxious.

It was dark now and the streetlights stretched ahead of him for a few hundred yards. He had the postcode, but which house? He slowed to a crawl and as the car inched forward he looked into the houses either side of him for inspiration.

A horn tooted behind him. Short, sharp. He pulled over and offered a wave of apology to the driver behind. He was rewarded with a look of fury, a jaw that was working on a mouthful of curses and a hand motion that suggested his hand was never far away from his genitals.

Kenny shook his head. Over-reacting much? ‘Who’s the wanker?’ he mouthed back.

He parked and reached for his phone. No more messages. The signal was weak, He called Alexis. No answer. He sent her a text –
I’m here
– and waited. No answer.

He got out of the car and locked it. Perhaps he
’d
now be better off on foot. If Alexis was looking out for him, she
’d
spot him out of a window and come and get him. He walked along one side of the street and back down the other, getting nothing but a few curtain movements and an indignant stare from one householder. Kenny waved at him, thinking, if you leave your curtains open I’m going to look in. Another hand signal in response. This time it was a vigorous ‘Up Yours’.

The houses all looked alike. Terraced villas built from red sandstone. Low walls hemmed in small gardens in front with shrubs and planters in such abundance that it suggested that everyone was trying to outdo their neighbour. Or going for some Town in Bloom award.

He stood with his hands on his hips. He was getting pissed off and was about to start knocking on doors. But what would he ask everyone? Excuse me, you harbouring a prostitute whose friend has just been murdered?

Back in the car, his phone was showing no bars and there was still no message from Alexis.

He exhaled. Fuck. Where was she? He looked out of his car at the houses around him, praying for inspiration. He looked at the clock on his dashboard. No way could he go knocking on doors at eleven o’clock at night. The only news being delivered at this time would be bad news. People would have heart attacks up and down the postcode and they
’d
remember him for years to come.

A curtain twitched. Did they make any other movement? In that particular window a large red candle warmed the sill; its flame dancing to the tune of the house’s internal breeze.

Who puts a large red candle in their window with the curtains all but shut behind it?

Kenny slapped his forehead. What an idiot. He was at the door double-quick. He knocked and was all but pulled through it before the sound reached his ear.

‘I thought you were going to be sat in that car all night,’ a woman’s voice whispered in the dark of the hallway. She had a Scottish accent.

‘Where’s Alexis?’

‘Ssshh,’ he was told. ‘In here.’ A door was pushed open.

His senses told him he was in no danger so he walked through the door into a living room. It held the standard sofa, two armchairs and TV, along with a running motif of teddy bears. They were in cloth, china and in pictures everywhere his eyes moved.

‘Have a seat,’ he was told, so, swallowing his impatience, he moved to an armchair and sat down and looked at the person who
’d
brought him in to their home.

His immediate impression was: short, with hair, and enough attitude for a family of neds. Even in her heels she would be lucky if she hit five feet. And the way she was standing before him with her hands on her hips, Kenny was sure she was more than a match for him verbally.

Her face was lined but lively – late-fifties or early-sixties? – and surrounded by a mass of black hair – a wig? – that added six inches to her height and reached well past her shoulders. She was dressed like a caricature of a character from an Eighties American soap opera. Shoulder pads, short tight skirt and knee length boots. Everything with a touch of pink.

Was she for real, he wondered, and one look at the focus that pierced him from her heavily made-up eyes told him that she was.

‘Alexis is sleeping,’ she said, arranging herself on the armchair opposite him. ‘She’s been through a lot.’ The way she said those last two words it was like she was blaming Kenny.

‘I
’d
like to talk to her.’

‘Not a chance, buddy. She needs a good rest before she thinks about what she’s going to do next.’

‘Listen, missus, I appreciate you helping her out and everything, but I’ve driven a long way to talk to her and that’s what I’m going to do.’ Kenny stood up.

‘Oh, sit on your arse. You don’t intimidate me.’

‘Look...’

‘Sit.’

‘But...’

She pointed to the chair.

He sat down.

‘Excellent.’ Her smile was genuine. ‘So you’ll be Kenny.’

‘Aye,’ he replied. He didn’t know what to make of her; he
’d
never met anyone quite so unaffected by him. There was no bluster, no hidden tremble, nothing. He was a bug; she was the shoe. ‘And you are?’

‘You can call me Diana.’ She crossed her slim legs, pulled some hair behind her ear, cocked her head to the side and gave a little smile. ‘I’ve always liked that name.’

Je-sus, Kenny thought, she’s flirting with me. He looked at her heavily made-up face; he
’d
initially thought she was in her late-fifties now he was revising that up to mid-seventies. She was mutton cryogenically frozen, dressed as a Dallas makeover lamb,

Whatever she was, he felt himself drawn to her.

‘And Alexis came to you because?’

‘I’m her mother.’ This was said with pride, worry and a slight uplift to her eyebrows.

Kenny opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she
’d
asserted she was a vampire and
Twilight
was based on her life story. Did she know what her daughter did for a living? Did she really know why she had fled the city?

‘I know everything, Kenny. My daughter keeps no secrets from me.’

The question must have been written all over his face. ‘You sure about that?’

‘She’s a working girl and you’re one of her... nice clients.’

‘Right,’ Kenny said. What else could he say? ‘I... she told me she was Italian-Swiss.’

‘Her father is,’ Diana smiled and looked up at the ceiling as if she could see through it and into the bedroom above, where her daughter lay sleeping. ‘Her mother is as Scottish as you are.’

‘Do you know what happened in Glasgow today?’

Diana nodded and bit her lip and for the first time Kenny read fear in her expression.

‘Do you have any idea who this monster is?’ she asked him, leaning forward in her chair.

‘I don’t. No. But as soon as I find out I’ll deal with him.’

Diana sat back in her chair. She looked at Kenny. She scanned the room and then her eyes stared into his as if she was measuring him for a lobotomy.

‘Will you be able to do the necessary?’ she eventually asked.

The necessary? Kenny made a face.

‘Don’t be naïve, son. I know you skirt outside the law. I can tell looking at you that you’re a man of violence. Will you be able to take this evil man on and make sure he never harms another person?’ Her expression was dark, her nostrils flared with the need to see her daughter safe.

‘Yes,’ Kenny replied and meant it. He’s never hid from a fight and had started more than a few, but his actions had never led to another man’s life being taken. This man, however, had him worried. His actions were disturbing and in his viscera Kenny knew that there would be a reckoning and only one of them would walk away. ‘I’ll do what it takes to protect my friends.’

Diana laughed loudly, throwing her head back like a pantomime villain. ‘A
friend
, bless you, son.’

‘What’s so funny?’ Kenny found himself irritated by her response.

‘You, ya numpty. Her friend. Alexis is a stunningly beautiful woman. You’ve a penis and a pulse. You no more want to be her friend than I want to get my nipples pierced.’ She shuddered. ‘You want to possess her. You want to have her hang off your arm so that all your tiny-dicked pals will be jealous.’

‘That’s harsh and unfair,’ said Kenny. ‘I’ve driven all the way to this bumfuck of a place to help her, so don’t tell me...’

‘Oh, don’t get your gusset all twisted, son. I’m just messing with you,’ She laughed again. Then she studied him again. ‘I get it.’ She paused. ‘You’re in love with her.’

‘I... I... eh.’ Kenny was at a serious loss at what to say. This woman could tie him up in verbal knots.

‘Ach, I shouldn’t be surprised. They all are.’ She chewed on the inside of her lip. ‘Whisky?’

‘Eh...’

‘Here’s the deal, Kenny me lad. If you want to help my daughter, you’ll let her sleep tonight and find somewhere to keep her safe in the morning. In the meantime, you’re welcome to the couch and a wee drop of the hard stuff. I’ll throw in the banter as an added bonus.’

‘How could I refuse such a generous offer?’ Kenny felt himself match her smile.

‘Where do you think Alexis got all that charm from?’

‘Were you on the game as well?’

‘Cheeky monkey,’ Diana laughed. ‘Fair enough question, I suppose.’ She stood up and walked out of the door. She returned moments later carrying a bottle of Glenmorangie and two glasses. ‘In answer to your frankly impertinent question,’ – grin – ‘no, I wasn’t on the game, but I am a wee bit... unconventional, you might say. So my daughter felt able to fill me in on her career choice.’

‘And where do you get your conventions from?’

‘My mother died when I was a child. My father was a touring actor and over the years I had many mothers from a variety of walks of life.’ The emphasis she placed on the word ‘variety’ suggested to Kenny that her mothers could have been anything from teachers to whores. Diana poured them both a generous measure. ‘I learned not to judge.’

‘Nice house,’ said Kenny, taking the offered glass.

‘Liar.’ Diana sat back down. ‘All these fucking teddy bears do my head in.’

Kenny must have looked mystified, for Diana went straight into an explanation. ‘Mad psycho attacks daughter and kills her friend. Do you think she
’d
be daft enough to risk him following her when she goes to pay her old mother a visit? The house belongs to a friend.’ She made a dismissive noise as she eyed up a line of ceramic teddy bears on the mantelpiece. ‘A very sad friend.’

For a time they sat in companionable silence, both of them sipping their whisky and each of them lost in thought.

Diana drained her glass and walked out of the room. Kenny heard her go upstairs, rummage in a cupboard and then come back down again. She was holding a quilt and a pillow when she walked back in the room. Kenny could just about make out the peak of her hair over the height of the bedding.

‘God.’ She let it all fall to the floor. ‘Nearly bloody killed myself coming back down those stairs.’ She blew some hair out of her mouth and stood before him with her hands on her hips. ‘Right, don’t even think of trying to sneak into her room in the middle of the night. I’m a mother, I know all these tricks. Besides,’ she laughed. ‘I slipped her some antihistamine instead of paracetomol. Used to knock her out for days when she was a wee girl.’