A Taste for Malice (7 page)
Read A Taste for Malice Online
Authors: Michael J. Malone
‘Angela, we can’t do this. You’re too vulnerable. I’m too bloody desperate. Not a good mix.’
‘It’s me who’s coming on to you, Jim.’
‘True,’ he nodded, like he was debating a point of housekeeping at the local church’s fundraising committee. He shook his head, trying to clear it. A neon sign lit up in his brain.
Bad Idea. Bad Idea. Bad Idea.
It was replaced with an image of Angela reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. He bit the inside of his cheek. Pain. That’s what was needed to get his conscience back on the programme.
‘It doesn’t mean that we are back living … as a couple. But just for tonight I would like to be with you. But if you …’ She took a step back. Several emotions were vying for attention on her face. She crossed her arms. ‘…if you’d rather not.’ Her voice was quiet. The look of rejection on her face was more than Jim could bear. All she wanted was to make a physical connection. Be skin to skin with another human. He couldn’t deny her that. It was what he needed himself.
‘What about a hug?’ He asked and opened his arms. A hug was safe, right?
Angela rested her cheek against his neck, they held each other and closed their eyes. It could have been hours, it could have been moments, Jim wasn’t sure, but he savoured the heat, the presence, the scent of her. Something shifted, something mended and something squeezed at his chest. He sniffed. He’d never felt so … so much joy, so much relief, or so much pleasure from such a simple act. Her heat, her smell, her closeness had been missing from his life for the best part of a year and here she was, in his arms. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to scream. His emotions were all over the place.
‘Jim,’ Angela turned her face up to his, ‘you’re crying.’
His answering laugh was soggy with tears.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘Well, it’s just as well one part of you does,’ she grinned and squeezed his penis, which had all but fossilized. ‘Your place or mine?’ She asked, nodding her head in the direction of her bedroom.
‘Yours,’ he answered wondering whose voice that was and why was it so husky. Condoms, he needed some condoms, ‘I just need to find …’ He gripped her arms. ‘Keep that thought. I’ll be with you in a second.’
He ran to the bathroom and the cupboard above the sink. Before the split Angela had moved them there for fear of prying little fingers finding them in his bedside cabinet. Jim plucked one from the box, checked the date. Yes, we’re on, he thought and ran back to the bedroom.
When he got there Angela was lying fully clothed on top of the bed, curled in the foetal position.
‘Angela,’ he whispered.
Nothing.
She was fast asleep.
In the car Alessandra is the first to speak.
‘Jeezuz, that was intense.’
I don’t respond. I am too busy getting a sense of the woman we are up against. Devious, clever and cruel. She sets out to ruin lives, preying on the weak, getting to know their weak spot before driving home the nail. The effects on that family have been both subtle and farreaching. Where is she now and where would she draw the line?
‘What’re you thinking, Ray?’ Ale asks.
‘We need to meet up with Daryl.’
Ale rummages for her mobile phone in her handbag. ‘It’s here somewhere.’ She lifts a purse out of the way. Then a lipstick and mirror. Then a bunch of hankies. Then some wet-wipes.
‘Wet-wipes and hankies?’ I ask.
‘Got a problem with that?’
‘I will only answer that question when my lawyer is present.’
She grimaces, still searching. Then, ‘Aaah. There it is.’ She plucks out a silver phone and presses a button. A noise sounds.
‘I’ve got a text from Daryl.’ She reads. ‘He wants to meet us back at the office.’
We meet at the coffee machine. Daryl is fetching one for Alessandra and I just wander up to them with body language that says, here I am, bored out of my skull and wanting to shoot the breeze with some colleagues — and you guys will do.
‘Caffeine isn’t good for you,’ I say.
‘Izzat right?’ Daryl says it like my opinion isn’t worth a dog fart.
‘Yeah. Especially women, Alessandra. Leeches the calcium from your bones. Another couple of years of that stuff and you’ll know more about osteoporosis than you ever wanted to.’
‘Will I get early retirement?’ She shrugs, takes a sip and makes an aaaah sound. ‘Just what the doctor didn’t order.’
‘DI Peters,’ Daryl says in a quiet voice. ‘Called me into his office when I got back in. Wanted to know where you were.’
When you are talking about someone else in your office — your open plan office — and you don’t want them to know about it, you have to adopt the correct posture and make the right facial shapes. Backs turned to the room and heads close together is a dead giveaway.
‘You’re not much good at this secret squirrel stuff, DD,’ I say and take a step back opening up my body shape so that it is less exclusive. ‘Everyone within a ten-mile radius thinks you’re talking about them.’
He sticks his bottom lip out as he considers what I just said. ‘I have a cunning plan,’ he says, turns and walks back to his desk. Ale follows him, prodding his back with her pen.
An email is waiting for me when I get back to my desk.
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A voice issues from my doorway. ‘Everything alright, Ray?’ It’s Peters.
I slouch and adopt a bored tone. ‘Yeah. Just catching up with some correspondence.’ I take my time in moving my eyes from the computer screen to his face. He has one hand on the doorknob and the other hangs by his side. Only one foot is in my office. ‘Worried about me?’
‘Just extending a professional courtesy, Ray. Nothing more.’ He walks away. I want to spear him with a pen.
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Didn’t sleep too well last night. Took me an age to get over as well. Kept thinking about the Craig boy being held up on the curtain cord and almost strangled. What kind of person thinks that up? It would take a good degree of determination to complete such a task. The wee boy would be struggling, choking, crying for his mum and dad. Did she pretend it was some kind of game at first to get him to comply?
I turned on one side then the other. Kicked the quilt off. Pulled it back over me. Got up for a drink of water and a piss. Then back to bed and back to images of a young boy being held and deliberately tortured.
When sleep eventually pulled me in I had a horrible dream. I was chasing a suspect and all the while I felt someone’s eyes were on me. But every time I turned round there was no-one there. I ran down an alley. My legs weren’t working properly. They felt as if they belonged to someone else. My breathing was harsh in my ears. My lungs strained to fill with air. The suspect was always just ahead. I knew that without being able to see them.
I kept running. Sweat was blinding me. A foul stench came from somewhere. It smelled of the earth’s deepest, blackest cave, of bloodletting and excrement. A place where unnameable creatures hunted. I sniffed looking for a source of the smell. It was me. The stench was made of my fears.
Somehow I was getting closer to the running shape ahead of me. I wanted to turn and run the other way. Every hair on my body was on end. I told my legs, ordered them to stop moving. They didn’t. As if through water they moved towards the indistinct form ahead of me.
A feather floated into my hand, small and white and its filament curved with the promise of doomed flight. The man ahead of me stopped. For now I could see it was a man. Most of him was in darkness. Somehow I could see his eyes. They held a peculiar light, one that you knew you could never afford to get lost in. I couldn’t see the bottom half of his face, but I knew he was smiling. I also knew his name. Leonard.
I wake up on the couch. Chest heaving and hair soaked with sweat, my body hot in a cold square of moonlight. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, my head in my hands, my mouth closed tight to stop my teeth knocking, I force myself to calm down. How did I manage to get through to the living room? I couldn’t remember ever sleep walking.
My quilt is on the floor; I must have carried it through with me. I pick it up and lie back down. The light became grey, and I sleep only for moments before I hear the alarm sounding from my bedroom. I feel like I’ve slept for five minutes. My eyes are hot with fatigue.
I’m doing that thing again where I walk past the full length mirror in my bedroom while studiously not looking at myself. A sure sign that I know I’m getting fat, and a sure sign that I will do nothing about it. All the skinnies have a big breakfast. This morning I am having a coffee. Followed by a coffee. Caffeine is again the drug of choice this morning.
I need to talk with someone. Would Ms Gibson like to hear the story of my dream, I wonder? Maggie might be a good option; she is always good for a listen on those few occasions I am willing to talk. Na, I’ll be a man and keep it to myself.
Theresa no longer fills the position of confidant. Not that we ever had much time for talking. That woman loved sex. Theresa and her bump pop into my mind. The more I think about it the more I’m convinced I am the father. She claimed at the time we were having our affair that she and her husband weren’t paying much attention to each other. So it’s not like my wee swimmers had to push his out of the way on their way to the egg.
Having an affair is such a genteel way of describing the heartache that is adultery. An affair. A fling. A liaison. Labels that work to disguise the cost of betrayal. Words that soften the guilt. I am a Catholic. Guilt is my middle name. Funny, I didn’t feel guilty when I was fucking her. Should I have? Who was the sinner, her or me? She was married, but she couldn’t have done it without my help. Does that make her worse? She was the one being dishonest. Perhaps I was as well. I pretended for long enough that it was only sex. Some fun. Nothing beats getting naked with a beautiful woman, does it? I lied to myself and only admitted it when I was on the run. Was my betrayal worse than hers? I fell in love when all she wanted was a little fun.
She told me she was always turning him down when he asked for sex. Stands to reason then, eh? I must be the father.
Can’t blame her for preferring her husband to act as the parent. I was on the run for murder at the time. While I stir sugar into my coffee I contemplate life as a father. Sleepless nights. Shitty nappies. Routine and a purpose outside of work. Might not be so bad. My mind conjures up a series of moving pictures. Me and child down by the sea… trousers rolled up and paddling in the slow roll of the waves…kicking a ball to each other with sand and surf spraying as we run for the ball…
Goodness gracious me, Ray McBain …could you be growing up?
I shut down the images. Who you trying to kid? My life is the Police. How could I force all of that pressure on to children? Daddy’s never home, Daddy’s always in a bad mood. Daddy’s in a good mood now because he caught a bad guy.
I admire the cops who can make it work. Takes a lot of effort, I’m just not sure I have it in me. Maybe I should stay in the shallows of life, find me a woman who is up for some company, romance and unfettered sex … in every sense of the word … and settle for that.
I have some phone calls to make this morning. Well, one. I want to speak to the lovely Ms Gibson. That is not my hormones talking. Well, only partly. I wonder if I should add Theresa to my list. Just to make sure she is okay. What would I say? How are you? Was that a big pregnant bump I noticed last time I saw you? Is it mine?
Or I could be even more direct that that.
Hello. Only me. How about you bin that miserable fucker and let me take care of you and the baby.
I pick the phone from the cradle. A few months from now and another man will be bringing up my child. I take a deep breath; acknowledge the churn in my stomach. My thumb hovers over the buttons.
I pull a note from my wallet, read a number and punch it into my phone. I get through without question. There are still times when using the job title gets you preferential treatment.
‘Ms Gibson, I have a question for you.’
‘DI McBain, it is a pleasure to hear from you, but can’t it wait until our next appointment?’
‘No. This is official I’m afraid and doesn’t concern my situation. But it will only take a few minutes of your time.’
I hear pages rustle. ‘Okay. You have two minutes.’
