Blood Tears (14 page)

‘No need to do that,’ the rescued man said as he wiped the dirt from his trousers. ‘I’ll no’ be pressing charges.’ He turned to face us and ignored our protests. ‘Got a bit tricky for a moment there. Thought I was a goner.’ He looked at me below the rim of my cap, ‘Ray McBain!’ It was only then I that I really looked at him. It’s a rare occurrence for someone involved in a brawl to know my full name.

‘Bloody hell. Kenny O’Neill. This is getting to be a habit.’

‘Aye, is it no’ just. Once every… what, seven years? That must make you my guardian angel. I owe you, man.’ We gave each other a look over. He was slightly taller than me, at least six feet two and from the way he filled his fashionable shirt, packing quite a bit of muscle. Not enough to hinder movement, but enough to let those who know what they are looking at that this man was not to be easily dismissed. Aware of his gaze, I pulled my gut in.

‘When do you guys get off your shift?’

‘Eleven,’ I answered. My partner was deep in thought.

‘Well in that case, let me buy you a drink.’ He named a bar and a time.

‘No thanks,’ my partner said, ‘we were just doing our job.’

‘How about you then, Ray? We could catch up on old times.’

When the shift was over my mate tried to warn me off.

‘I’ve heard of that guy. Can’t remember where. But he’s trouble. Keep well away.’

I didn’t. We met every now and again for a drink, but as I grew deeper into my career and he into his, we grew apart. Our paths would cross now and again, but we would rarely do more than nod in each other’s direction. In another life we would have likely been best friends or soldiers at arms together.

On the rare occasions we did meet the implicit agreement was that neither talk about their working lives.  The irony wasn’t lost on me that when relaxing I preferred the company of a criminal to the men and women I worked beside day in day out. Kenny never lost that glamour that drew me to him as a boy. He had a confidence, a charm that you couldn’t fail to respond to. I keep out of his affairs and my personal knowledge of a criminal has not affected my career, so why bin the relationship such as it was?

Stories about Kenny found their way back to me over the years. He grew a fearsome reputation but was never found with his hand in the swag bag. Always clever enough to let someone else dirty their hands, he managed to avoid the ultimate occupational hazard of every career criminal.

Never having had a visible regular girlfriend, he preferred the company of prostitutes, and being so good looking, he attracted debate over his sexuality. This never bothered him. Indeed he played up to it and used it to his advantage. Word got out among the criminal fraternity that he had brutally beaten and then raped an adversary. Any man he then winked at became the subject of speculation from his mates, but Kenny was no weakling and no-one would stand against him unless they had an Uzi, so he was given respect and left to go about his business.

‘It didn’t do the Krays any harm,’ he said during our last meeting, at least a year ago. I asked him about a girlfriend.

‘What? No way, mate. I prefer a good, clean honest transaction. She knows exactly where I stand and I know where she stands.’

‘What about intimacy?’ I asked.

‘A myth,’ he replied, ‘a myth put about by your Catholic priests and feminists to make us men keep our peckers in our collective pants.’ 

 Saturday night. I’m at the Chapel. How sad is that? Haven’t been for years.  The booze didn’t keep the dreams at bay for long and the hangover wasn’t much of a trade-off. Nor were the women I kept bringing home with me doing anything for my sanity. Another one last night, but she got as far as my front door, before I emptied my stomach at her feet. The taxi-driver didn’t even get a chance to put his car into first gear before she returned to the front seat.

So I thought I’d try religion.

All of that brain-washing from my childhood surely wouldn’t be lost on me now. Surely something of the psyche of the boy remains? A few Our Fathers, a reading of the Gospel and the mismatched singing voices of the congregation will be enough to keep me calm for a few hours and dispel the pictures in my head.

As the priest begins Mass from behind the altar, his words ring with familiarity. Despite the intervening years, I could chant along with him and match him word for word.

When I left the seminary, I vowed I’d never step foot inside another church. And here I am, all but joining hands with the hypocrites. I can’t deny the good that’s been done over the years by the people who wear the cloth, but I’ve experienced too much of the dirt that is concealed within its folds.

The congregation rushes into song. I pick up a hymn-book and join them. Emotion clogs my throat like thick phlegm. What is going on? I stop singing. Part of me wants to move closer to the altar and part of me wants to run into the street. I am simultaneously attracted and repelled. I can’t stand much more of this.

The woman beside me looks up at me. The top of her black velour hat barely reaches my shoulder. Her eyes question me. ‘You all right, son?’

There’s pity swimming in the brown of her iris. It’s almost more than I can stand. I brush past her and ignore the loud tuts as I make my way to the door. A question forms in my mind as I breathe in the cold air outside the large doors.  ‘Where’s the nearest place I can buy cocktails?’

I’m in bed and the alarm has just gone off. It’s Monday morning, 6:30 am. The resident band in my head is playing hard and they only have one tune: an extremely loud one that keeps perfect time with my heartbeat. Congratulations, McBain, you managed to get home in one piece.

Sunday afternoon through Sunday night is a blur. The last thing I can remember is standing at the church door wondering where I could get a drink. Judging by the churn in my stomach, I managed to find one. Or two. Still, I can chalk another one up to the alcohol, no dreams and no dead bodies last night, thank you very much.

Two things happen simultaneously. I become aware of the presence of another person and the quilt beside me rises as they cough. The cough I hear is harsh enough to dislodge a week’s worth of nasal production. She’s bound to be a stunner then.

Well. That’s a result. A woman actually made it into my bedroom.

The log-like shape beside me stirs some more. It makes a decent sized mound under the covers. Again, not promising. With more than a little trepidation, I poke a finger at the shoulder area.

‘Morning.’ I resist the urge to ask for a name at this point. Gallant to the last, me. Bleached blonde hair surfaces, then a pair of eyes thick with smudged mascara and sleep. She looks about ten years older than me. What is it with me and older women?

‘What kind of time’s this to go waking a girl then?’ She pushes herself back and up against the headboard. As she does this she takes the quilt with her to hide her bra.

‘Did we…?’

‘Nah, doll. By the time I got my clothes off, you were asleep.’ She grins, showing perfectly formed and dazzlingly white teeth. ‘And don’t think you’re getting any this morning. I’m strictly a night bird.’

I almost make a pretence of being disappointed, but decide not to as she could easily see through it.

‘At least tell me we had a good time then?’

‘It was alright till you phoned up your bird’s husband and gave him an earful down the phone.’

‘I did what…?’ Shit. I was well and truly fucked. I need to be anywhere but here. I need to get some peace and quiet and try to think things through. I need to phone Theresa and assess the damage. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

‘If you drive anywhere the day, you’ll get the polis.’

‘I am the polis,’ escapes before my internal editor can silence it.

‘I know. Overheard you telling the husband. Detective Inspector. Very impressive.’

‘Shit. What did I say?’ My head is really hurting now. Fuck. What were you thinking, McBain? You can say goodbye to Theresa forever now, you fuckwit.

‘Something along the lines of his wife was in love with you and if he wanted to take issue with it, he should pop along to Pitt Street and look for the office with DI McBain on the door.’

Fuck. I’d throw myself back on to the bed but it would take a week for the waves of pain to die down. I need some space.

‘So, can I take you home? Phone you a taxi?’

‘Give a girl a chance to waken up before you go sorting her out.’

Shit. I’ll never be able to get rid of her.

‘And don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I’ve had my morning fag and a coffee.’

‘Right.’

She looks at me. ‘You’re a bit slow in the morning, son. That’s a gentle hint for you to do the gentlemanly thing. Find me my fags and fetch me a coffee, then when you’re out of the room, I can make myself decent.’

‘Right.’ With the covers over my lap, I try to locate the presence of a bathrobe or trousers. Anything I can use to protect my own dignity. It occurs to me I’m not sure which body part I’d rather cover up. My belly or my genitals?

‘How come I’m naked, if we didn’t do anything?’ I ask.

‘You stripped and fell into bed before I could stop you and, as I already told you, there was no way I was sleeping on that excuse for a settee. Two-seaters are the work of Satan, if you ask me. Another example of how unsociable we are becoming. Can’t even ask people over for an innocent wee sleepover nowadays.’

My clothes are hanging over the chair at the other side of the bed, so I’m forced to perform a strange pantomime crouch around the side of the bed, like I’m the back of the horse, but I forgot my costume. In this strange position, I shuffle along the side of the bed and along its foot to the chair, while offering nothing to her view but my ample arse. Trousers and a shirt on, I turn to face her. She’s not doing a very good job of stifling a grin.

‘You got a bad hip?’ she asks with a squashed smile.

‘Piss off,’ I smile and blush at my idiocy. ‘How does madam like her coffee?’

‘With a generous portion of brandy, topped up with thick, whipped cream,’ she says languorously, ‘But I’ll settle for milk and two sugars. And a fag.’

While the kettle boils, I make for the toilet and take a piss. I self-consciously aim my stream at the wall of the pan rather than straight into the water. My face is pinched and pale in the mirror. The flesh looks jaundiced and the folds under my eyes are getting pronounced enough to conceal my nail clippings. The sink supports my weight nicely as I lean into the mirror.

I tug at the skin under my right eye and view the engorged lacing of red capillaries that feed my eye. Attractive.

As I perform this inventory of my ongoing dilapidation I’m trying to recall my erstwhile bed-partner’s name. Nothing. Last night has left nothing in my mind. Well, that’s a result of sorts. But can I just go back there and hope she inadvertently reminds me? I hear her moving about the flat. Probably having a nosy to see what’s worth stealing. This thought galvanises me to leave the bathroom.

She’s opening a kitchen drawer.

‘Excuse me,’ she offers, ‘I’m trying to find a teaspoon.’

‘Over here,’ I squeeze past her in the small space, trying my utmost not to touch her with any part of my body. Ah, the joy of one-night stands. ‘There.’ I open the drawer and pull one out.

‘I’ll just go and sit in the other room. Sorry.’ She’s a little shyer outside of the bedroom. It’s as if while we were in the bedroom there remained a little of the companionship we were both looking for last night, but here in the kitchen where life has a different rhythm, our lack of real intimacy is highlighted.

‘Right, you go through to the living room and I’ll bring your coffee in to you.’ God this is awkward. If I’d known her name I could have slipped it in there. Its absence worried at me, like I would be less of a reprobate if I could remember it, and more of a gentleman. I should stop thinking, my head hurts too much.

We’re at either end of the sofa.

‘Nice coffee.’ She’s got a nice smile and I can see why I was attracted to her. ‘Lovely place too. The polis must pay nearly as much as being an entrepreneur.’

‘I wish.’ My mouth is at the lip of the mug and I’m breathing in the aroma like it’s menthol and I’m trying to clear my tubes. What is her name? Better get showered and dressed after this. After my coffee.

‘It’s Maggie, by the way,’ she is still smiling, but her eyes have lost that mild flirtatious look. They’re now clothed in concern. ‘You all right?’ I’ve just noticed she has this annoying habit of answering a question just as it pops into my head.

‘Yeah.’ I lie. ‘A quick shower and a shave and I’ll be brand new.’

‘Okay,’ her tone says she doesn’t believe me. She’s looking at me as if she’s trying to… divine something. It’s as uncomfortable as hell to be the subject of her scrutiny.

I stand up. ‘Bugger the shower. Let’s get you home.’

We’ve made it to the car and we’re driving along that mecca of small shops, Great Western Road, towards the city centre. “Driving” is a bit of an exaggeration. “Parking and sliding forward” would be a more accurate description. Don’t you just love rush hour traffic? To avoid it would mean too much thought, and I’m not doing thought this morning.

‘You been in the police long?’

‘Too long.’

‘Sounds like you don’t enjoy it.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Why don’t you leave?’

‘’Cos institutions are all I’ve known. Where else would I go?’ Whoa big guy. Where the fuck did that come from?

‘A hospital? That’s an institution. You could help people there.’

‘A mental hospital maybe.’

‘You’re not going mad, you know.’ Her voice is quiet. Serious.

‘What?’ I take my eyes from the traffic and face her.

‘You heard.’ She holds my gaze. I break contact first. The car in front of me has edged forward. Almost absently, I register a pain in the front of my lower leg, as it tires from the constant on and off pressure on the clutch. This traffic is doing my head in. What I would give for a siren right now.

‘Just who the hell are you?’

‘Do you think we met by chance last night?’

Christ, she’s a loony. I’ve picked up my own personal stalker.