Beyond the Rage (24 page)

So this was where Hunt would spend his spare time, Kenny reckoned. He sat on the nearest chair. Nice. Deeply comfortable. The arm held a cluster of remote controls. He switched on the TV first. Then he judged which one might be for the DVD player and pressed play. A blonde woman with unfeasibly large, naked breasts filled the screen. She moaned and held one of her breasts to her mouth and licked at her nipple. Kenny clicked on to the next scene. The same blonde had a man between her legs. He was shirtless but wearing a pair of jeans, and Kenny could see that she was wearing a pair of panties. The man arched his back as if he was in the throes of some deep and wonderful passion. Through three layers of clothing? This guy must have been locked in a cell for the last twenty years. For fuck’s sake, thought Kenny. Even the man’s porn stash was boring.

He stepped over to the bookcase to see if it gave him any other clues to the man who owned this house. There was a set of leather-bound encyclopaedias, which looked like they
’d
never been opened. Another row of spines displayed the names of sporting greats like Ali, Best and Schumacher.

On top rested the only two books that looked as if they might have actually been read. One was
Dreams of My Father
by Barack Obama. The other was
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
. There’s a surprise, thought Kenny. Who hasn’t read those two books? Not very original is our man Hunt.

Up a wide and easy oak staircase, Kenny arrived at landing with five doors leading off it. The first three doors were bedrooms, all well appointed, but looking as lived in as they might have done the minute the decorators tidied up after themselves.

Kenny looked behind paintings, opened drawers and looked under beds. He worked through Hunt’s sock drawer and looked in the pockets of all his suits, hanging in a row in his wardrobe. Everything had its place and looked like it was rarely moved from it. He was struck by the thought that this wasn’t a home. It was a beautifully set up waiting room. Kenny couldn’t help but feel that if you were to find a way to remove Tommy Hunt from his work, the man would simply curl up into a ball and die.

The fourth door he opened led to a study. A wide desk with a small column of three drawers at the side. The first one Kenny tried was locked. So was the next. One by one he tried them all. Every one was locked. Old school, thought Kenny.

The drawers called to him. They must be hiding something worth checking out. Jimmying them open would be the work of seconds, but might be easily discovered.

Deciding the risk was worth it, Kenny ran back downstairs for something that might be useful. In a kitchen drawer he found a set of screwdrivers. He chose the longest, thinnest one and ran back up to the study.

An old mate had given him a lesson years ago and as he sat on the leather seat at the desk, he hoped that the lesson had stuck. His friend’s words sounded in his ears.

‘Actually all that needs to happen is if you put something thin enough in the lock and strike upward against the tumblers then when the tumblers go up and stay up it’s much easier to open the lock then you think. The only thing that makes it tricky is applying torque to the hole right where the key usually enters. Torquing the outer hole allows the tumblers to stay up, and once the tumblers are jabbed up with your object they will stay in place and the inner lock mechanism will give way. That’s basically…’ his mate sniffed ‘…the secret.’

The top drawer on the right held a pile of business cards, a ruler, some small coins and an empty wallet. Next, he tried the top drawer on the left. Pulled out a black, leatherbound A4 notepad and black pen. Flicking through the pages, he stopped when he spotted his own name. Written beside it, in it has to be said a very neat script, was Liam Devlin’s name and mobile number. Under that some bullet-points.

Streetwise.

Self-made.

Trains in mixed martial arts.

No wife or kids.

Mother dead. Suicide? Father disappeared. Wider family – Colin, Violet and cousin Ian.

Kenny read the list several times. The man had been doing his research in advance of his meeting with him. Why was Liam involved? Did Hunt get the information from him?

Something niggled. He read it again. The question mark after the word ‘suicide’. What the hell was that about?

Not sure if he
’d
learned anything of importance, Kenny left the house, locked the back door and returned the key to its hiding place.

As he walked back to the front of the house, he heard someone walking across the gravel from the direction he was heading. He stopped. Looked back at the house. Did he have time to pluck out the key, get back in and hide? Not a chance.

He surveyed the garden. Was there a tree close enough for him to hide behind?

The footsteps were getting closer. He could hear a tune. The person was relaxed, humming a song.
It’s Raining Men.
Sounded female. She rounded the corner. Brassy blonde hair piled on top of her head, dead-on five feet tall, blue pinny, black leggings. Her torso was solid and chunky like a postbox, her legs spindly like a heron’s.

She stopped as soon as she saw him, hand over her heart. Kenny decided to brass it out. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

‘I’m Mr Hunt’s housekeeper.’ She recovered quickly. ‘Who the hell are you?’

He held his blue folder in front of him, by way of explanation. ‘Excellent,’ he said and smiled like she was his favourite ever customer. He strode towards her. ‘Keep Safe Alarms Ltd. I had an appointment with Mr Hunt.’ He stood beside her. Opened his folder to let her see his scribbles, but not long enough for her to read them. ‘But he didn’t show, so I thought I
’d
take a look around, measure up the place. Look for weak points in his security system.’

‘Weak points?’ she asked incredulously. ‘It’s a pure wonder there’s no a line of junkies like them army ants, punting every last piece of gear out his house.’

‘Well, here’s a leaflet, honey.’ Kenny handed her one that he
’d
picked up from the double glazing shop earlier. ‘I’ll get my preliminary report to Mr Hunt by the end of the week.’ He studied her face for a moment. She glowed under his scrutiny, like she rarely had men this interested.

‘Are you ever in The Academy?’

‘Me? No.’ She pushed at her hair.

‘I’ve not seen you on the dancefloor, shaking your stuff?’

‘Well, I have been known to...’

‘All woman,’ said Kenny, walking past her towards his car. ‘You have a good day, sweetheart.’ Better not overdo it, he thought and dimmed his smile a little.

Last he saw her, she was standing at the corner of the house, her hip stuck out to the side like an invitation and her hand waving him away like he was a visiting dignitary.

• • •

As he drove back to Dimitri’s, he reviewed the evidence. What had he learned? Next to nothing. What did he expect? A big sign somewhere saying that Tommy Hunt was a
Bad Man and Not to Be Trusted
?

Not going to happen.

He expected to find some clues though, not an absence of anything that most people would call a life. The whole building was beautifully sterile. What manner of man lives like that?

Then it occurred to him that something else was missing from the house. Photographs. He hadn’t spotted one throughout the whole house. Hunt was supposedly a grieving husband and father yet there wasn’t any visual reminders of those he had lost.

Was he so controlling of his feelings that he wouldn’t allow himself a moment to reflect? Whatever the reason, it intrigued Kenny. It all pointed to a man who was emotionally bereft. Could a man like that run a business empire that included a stable of prostitutes?

Kenny drove back to his flat deep in thought. Managed to find a parking space about a hundred yards from his door and still working his thoughts for clues as to the machinations of Tommy Hunt.

Having already been attacked in the last few days, he was on high alert for any danger so when a man barred his path he automatically adopted a pose that would give him the greatest range of possible movement.

‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Kenny relaxed a little at the apology and looked at the man in front of him. He was a trim, weather-beaten five ten or eleven. His hair was down to his shoulders and woven with grey stripes. He had a row of white, even teeth winking out from behind a full beard. The smile may have been full but the eyes were hesitant.

‘Hello, Kenny,’ the man said, hands buried deep in his pockets, displaying more than a hint of nerves. ‘It’s me. Dad.’

46

Mason watched O’Neill as he strode out for his morning jog and thought to himself, what a colossal waste of fucking time. Wouldn’t catch him running unless his dick was tied to a galloping horse. He waited until the man returned and left again just ten minutes later, all showered and changed, bless him. Away he drove, searching for the proverbial needle.

Budge knew that O’Neill was hunting for him; he also knew that no one was about to spill. They knew better. He waited. Budge was good at waiting. One hour. Two hours.

It was approaching noon when he dialled a number on his mobile phone.

A voice answered fearfully. ‘Hello?’

‘Report,’ he said.

‘I have nothing for you,’ Alexis said. She was controlling herself well but he could taste the fear in her voice.

‘C’mon, sweetheart. Two minutes and I could be at your front door.’

‘I have a friend with me,’ she said. ‘Now is not a good time.’

‘It never is, babycakes. Nonetheless, I’m sure I could persuade you otherwise.’

‘Please, Mason. You already know everything.’

‘I very much doubt it. Where has your fella driven off to today?’

‘He has a business meeting.’

‘With whom?’

‘I dunno. He doesn’t spill out the entire contents of his life and diary to me,’ Alexis whispered into her phone.

‘Why not? I thought that was your fucking job, lady.’

Silence.

‘Give me something else, no matter how trivial it might seem, Alexis, or I’ll be up in that flat and showing you and your bouncer boy what a good time Budge-style looks like.’

‘He had a phone call the other night. A woman. She asked if he looked like his father.’

‘Mmmm, that’s a great big so-fucking-what. I’m on my...’

‘He was also talking about his family last night. His Aunt Vi. Said she had an affair with his father years ago...’

‘On my way.’

‘No. He also said that his aunt is seriously ill and she confessed that her son, Ian, might be his half-brother.’

‘Interesting,’ said Budge. ‘Not sure what I can do with it, but yes... interesting.’ He could work with that. He needed to keep O’Neill continuously on edge. Never letting him settle. One nightmare situation after the other. He
’d
need to pay little Aunt Vi another visit. The little typed note he left for her just after O’Neill’s birthday set the whole thing off perfectly.

He paused in his thoughts as a familiar car drove by and parked further down the street. Without notice, he closed his phone and his conversation with Alexis.

He watched as the driver climbed out of his car and walked towards the entrance of his flat. A man approached the driver. An older man. There was something familiar about him. The two men spoke. The older man held out a hand. O’Neill refused it.

The clues all clanged together like a peal of church bells and Budge could only think of one word that appealed in this particular situation.

Bingo.

47

They were in a pub. The older man baulked at the idea of going for a coffee.

‘What, are you a fucking poof?’ was his reply when Kenny suggested it.

‘This is twenty-first century Glasgow. Coffee is the new booze.’ Kenny almost finished his sentence with the word ‘Dad’ but it froze on his tongue like a lump of phlegm.

‘You’re talking pish, son. Coffee will never replace booze in this city. Never.’

Kenny thought about it some and decided his father was correct. He was talking pish. They walked in silence towards the nearest bar, which took up a corner position at the end of the street. Kenny walked beside his father, his gaze fixed ahead of him, but from time to time he would turn and examine the older man and measure him against the memories he had stored. His mind was also racing, wondering what had eventually forced his father out of hiding. It must have been his advert, surely?

Peter O’Neill hadn’t changed much. Apart from the woodsman look he was sporting, and a few lines, he looked pretty much the same man. Each time he looked up, his father was waiting for his glance and met it with a small smile. A smile that said,
I can take whatever you throw at me – I deserve it.

When they reached the outside of the bar, Peter pushed the door open and, walking in first, he held it open for Kenny to follow.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ll have a bottle of Stella Artois,’ Kenny replied.

‘Christ, one of those wanky designer beers...’

‘If you’re here looking to mend bridges, let me give you a few hints...’

‘Sorry,’ Peter said. ‘Please. Take a seat and I’ll bring the drinks over.’

By habit, Kenny took a seat with a central position in the bar. He could see down each side of the room and he could see everyone who came in the door.

‘Good seat,’ said Peter when he returned with two bottles of Stella. Kenny raised an eyebrow.

‘If you cannae beat them,’ Peter said and raised his bottle in greeting. Kenny resisted the social urge to clink bottles and offer the universal ‘Cheers’. It was going to take more of an effort than the simple purchase of the same beer to get Kenny on side.

They faced each other across the table. Neither man spoke for long moments, as if questions were coin and the recession was a long way from over.

Kenny looked around the pub. It was busy. Groups of young men, young women, couples clustered around the room. Each one of them appearing certain of their place in the world. The noise of the chatter was a brightness in the room. It held the humour that Glasgow was famous for.

‘Anything you want to ask, go ahead.’ Peter was the first to break, his expression a mixture of apology, regret and challenge. It said,
I have treated you badly, with the best of reasons.

‘How long have we got?’ asked Kenny.

‘Good question. I knew you
’d
turn out to be a smart kid.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said Kenny. ‘Don’t act like you have any right to be proud of me.’

‘We have as long as you like,’ said Peter, sitting back in his chair, arms by his side. He was giving his son the view that he had nothing to hide. ‘When’s closing time?’ he asked with a smile.

‘So, we’re not talking the rest of my life then?’

Peter shook his head slowly. ‘I have other responsibilities.’

‘Why did you leave?’ Emotions surged within Kenny. He wanted to stand up and run out. He wanted to take both bottles and break them over his father’s head. He wanted to take his father’s shirt and shake answers out of the man.

The twelve-year-old inside of him wanted to run into a corner and hide and cry until his eyes were bleeding. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to be twelve and abandoned by the two people...?’ The rest of his sentence stuck in his throat and Kenny tried to wash it down with a slug of beer. He choked and his father was out of his seat and thumping him between the shoulder blades.

‘Fuck off,’ Kenny managed to say. ‘Don’t fucking touch me.’ He pushed him away with his good arm.

‘What happened?’ Peter looked at his broken one.

All sorts of answers crowded for release, but with a huge measure of will Kenny fought them back. If he wanted answers, he was going to have to calm down.

‘Long story,’ was the reply he settled for. ‘Your letter said you had to go. Want to tell me more about that?’

Peter shook his head. ‘Can’t. You can ask me about anything, but don’t ask about that.’

‘What about the birds and the bees? What about a lecture on the use of condoms and the one about avoiding dirty women? What about–’

‘I sent you letters.’

‘Fuck the letters. Aunt Vi only let me see them a couple of months ago. She was frightened the sight of them would send me off the deep end.’

‘God, you are so like me, son...’

‘Don’t call me son.’

‘I can take the anger. I want your anger.’ Peter’s eyes blazed. A tear sparkled on his cheek. ‘I can take whatever you want to deal out to me. You want to go outside and give me a pasting?’ He stood up. ‘That’s okay with me.’

‘Sit on your arse,’ said Kenny. ‘Even with one broken arm I could break every bone in your body.’ Kenny paused. ‘Tempting, but ultimately pointless.’

‘You’re
that
good, are you?’ Peter asked with a half-smile like he wanted to test his son.

‘Aye,’ said Kenny, not a trace of doubt on his face. Then he exhaled, his breath long and painful. ‘What
can
you tell me?’

‘I re-married. A girl...’ A distant smile as his mind played an image of her. ‘A woman called Kathy. Kathy Garrett. She called you the other night.’

Kenny nodded. Made sense.

‘She said you sounded really nice. It was her who convinced me that I should come and see you.’

‘Need much convincing?’

Peter reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He opened it up and plucked two weathered photographs from the inside. Placing them on the table between them he kept talking. ‘Kathy knows the dangers of me coming here and still she sent me on my way. That’s the measure of her. She’s a good woman.’ In the first photo the colours were washed out, faded onto the fingers of the man who was positioning it on the table for Kenny to see. It was him. He was about ten years old and on his hunkers behind a football, wearing a Partick Thistle strip.

The other photo was much more recent. It showed the grinning faces of a boy and a girl. Both blonde. The boy was missing one of his two front teeth and the girl was trying to prove that she had a bigger smile than her brother.

‘Nick is twelve now. Loves Rangers, to my shame. Joy is thirteen going on thirty. Been here before, that one.’ Peter swept the photos back into his wallet as if afraid Kenny would rip them up. ‘They’re my attempt to make things right in the world.’

‘And yet here I sit, a reminder of everything you did wrong.’

‘Don’t you think I had sleepless nights? Worried about you endlessly? I missed you like someone had torn out one of my lungs.’

‘Words, Pete. Words.’

His father shrunk at the shortened version of his name. ‘I expect it would be too much to use the word “Dad”.’ His voice wore a coating of acceptance.

Kenny didn’t answer; he simply raised an eyebrow in a what-the-fuck-do-you-think? gesture.

Peter placed his hands on the table and squared his shoulders. He exhaled. Bit down on his top lip.

‘After today I can’t see you again.’

The finality of it scorched through Kenny’s gut. He looked away, allowed it to sink in. Swallowed. His eyes stung. His chest tightened. He fought the emotion. He would not give in to it. He would not let this man see he was hurting. He felt, from the moment he sat down, that this was going to be a one-off meeting and having it spelt out so honestly was almost more than he could bear.

His father reached out a hand. Silently begging for a touch. His fingertips millimetres from his son’s skin. His own eyes were sparkling with tears. Kenny withdrew his hand from the table.

‘I can’t, son. I can’t risk it. The one compensation through all of this has been knowing my absence kept you safe.’

Kenny laughed. The sound was a harsh note that clashed with the everyday laughter that bounced around the room. ‘Aye. The letters. How much of that can you explain?’

‘Just what I wrote. Any more would be too much.’

‘Not good enough, old man.’

‘Please don’t ask any more of me, Kenny.’

‘You missed me as if someone had torn out one of your lungs.’ Kenny repeated his father’s words in a camp voice. ‘I deserve more than platitudes, you cunt. I was fucking twelve!’ He stood up and rushed from the pub, almost knocking a guy over in his rush to get out. The man turned to face up to him, read the look on his face and backed down.

Outside, Kenny marched up and down the pavement like he was desperate to get away, but knowing he couldn’t because the thing he was trying to get away from was straddling his back. His breathing was hard and fast. He fought for control. He needed more from his father, but he wasn’t going to get it if he carried on like this.

He marched back into the bar and sat in front of his father as if he had only gone off to the toilet.

‘Where are you living?’ he asked.

‘I can’t tell you that.’ Peter’s eyes were heavy with regret.

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Peter reached a decision. ‘Balquhidder.’

Kenny shot back in his chair. ‘You’re fucking kidding me?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I was up there not long ago. At the hotel further down the glen.’

‘What made you go there?’ asked Pete, shaken that they
’d
been so close.

Kenny shrugged. ‘Memories. You took me there when I was a kid.’

‘So I did,’ Peter said, his view lost in the past. ‘How can I ever make this up to you, son?’

Kenny shook his head. ‘You can’t. Or you won’t?’

Peter said nothing. He met his son’s challenge face on, with no answer but a legion of
I’m sorry
’s and a mountain of regret.

‘I feel like getting wrecked.’ Kenny stood up and looked at the bottle of beer his father had barely touched. ‘Want something stronger than that pish?’

‘A wee malt whisky wouldn’t go amiss,’ Peter replied, his face transformed with the hope of a thaw in his son’s attitude. Kenny read this and almost slapped him down again. Decided there was no point and walked over to the bar.

He returned with two double whiskies and a tumbler of ice and water.

‘What do you do up in Balquhidder?’ asked Kenny.

‘I work for the Forestry Commission. Kathy’s a teacher in the local school.’ He pulled a glass nearer and tipped a small amount of water into it. ‘I was a mess when we met. She cleaned me up and got me on the straight...’ He stopped when he read Kenny’s expression. ‘You’re not interested in all that stuff.’

‘The weird thing is,’ said Kenny, ‘I could never forget your face. But Mum? She vanished. A few years later and I really couldn’t remember what she looked like.’ As soon as Kenny thought he had dealt with his anger, something occurred to him and it flared back up again. He wasn’t going to hit the old bastard, but sure as fuck he was going to make him squirm. ‘Did you replace Mum as easily as you replaced me?’

‘It wasn’t like that. You’ve got to understand...’

‘I don’t have to understand anything.’

‘I loved your mum. Truth be told, I still do.’ Peter’s hands were wrapped round his glass.

‘Is that why you had an affair with Aunt Vi?’

Peter paused the journey of his arm as he was bringing the glass to his mouth.

‘And please don’t do me the disservice of trying to lie to me,’ said Kenny.

‘You’ve not made any mistakes, Kenny? You’ve done nothing wrong in your whole fucking life?’

‘You don’t get to bat it back to me, Pete. You fucked up. You get to answer for it.’

‘Naw,’ said Peter. ‘It doesn’t work like that, son. You’re an adult. You know how it works. I was a silly wee boy. Full of spunk and vinegar. The world was mine and I was going to take everything I could fit in my pockets. Yes, I made mistakes and yes I’ve been answering for them the last eighteen years and twenty-four days.’

Kenny was unmoved. ‘You had an affair with your wife’s sister. How easy does that kind of betrayal come to you,
Dad
?

Peter took the blow. Breathed deep as if taking it into his lungs. He had a penance and he was going to accept every last drop of whatever Kenny was going to throw at him. ‘I was young, I was stupid. I was a powerful guy in those days. People looked up to me and it all went to my head. I wasn’t a nice man, Kenny. But I’ve learned from those mistakes...’

‘Vi is convinced that Ian is your son.’

Peter’s face betrayed that he had his own suspicions all along. He shook his head, looked like he wanted to find a bridge and jump off it.

‘How much shit can one man shovel in his life?’ Peter asked and looked deep into the amber of the whisky. ‘Did Colin take it out on you?’

‘He still doesn’t know. I think he knows that you and Vi had an affair and he made me suffer plenty for that over the years. If he ever found out Ian was yours, it would send him off the deep end.’

‘We were good mates once. Colin was a good guy. One of the best. How’s your Aunt Vi?’

‘Not good. In fact, she thinks she’s dying.’

‘What?’ Peter shot forward in his seat.

Kenny filled him in on Vi’s health situation.

‘Where is she?’ Peter asked.

‘She’s in the Royal. You’re not going to visit her, are you?’

‘Wouldn’t be safe. If they ever found out that Vi and I were close...’

‘Who the fuck are “they”?’

‘Kenny, please trust me on this. I can’t tell you.’

‘So we just hide for the rest of our lives? That’s your answer?’

‘Aye.’

‘I say we take them on. You and me. Fuck hiding. There was a horrible accident nearly twenty years ago. Move on, for fuck’s sake.’

‘These people don’t move on, Kenny.’

‘In that case we take the fight to them.’

Peter shook his head. ‘I can’t anymore. I’ve been out of the game for too long. And you...’ – he looked at Kenny’s broken arm – ‘you’ve been taken off the board.’