Hell To Pay (4 page)

Chapter 7

The day after my session with Dr. Bowen, I wake up alone, my pillows damp with tears. Sadness hits me in waves and I’m blubbing away.

I used to have great parents and a good job in a graphic design firm that kept promoting me in spite of my efforts to coast by. My boyfriend was considered “a catch” and we lived in a fashionable area where we were neighbors with artists, writers and gay couples in matching sweaters and corduroy trousers going through the adoption process.

Now what did I have?

My Mum's sister who used to stick pins in her when my gran wasn’t looking. She'd visited me in hospital once, wrinkled her nose in disgust, screeching about how she can’t handle this as she flounced out of the room in a haze of smoker’s perfume. Handle what? Not being tortured, murdered or raped? Unbelievable. The one time in my life that I needed her and she was too busy thinking of herself.

What else did I have?

A cheating swine of an ex, swanning around town with a girl who thought undying love and future happiness could be secured by a boob job, bottle blonde hair and cheap and nasty hair extensions, and who, so far, had been proven right? Even my friends had deserted me, including Shelley who’d been like my twin since we’d been sent to the headmaster’s office because our skirts were shock, horror an inch above the knee.

"You need to move on," she’d told me when I’d outlined my plan for revenge. "Don’t let what happened destroy you, or get you on the wrong side of the law."

She insisted she was thinking of me, but I knew she was more interested in things getting back to “normal.” Of me being the pal who was always available whenever she needed a babysitter or someone to moan to about her husband’s numerous shortcomings.

All I had left now was simmering resentment and unadulterated hatred for the men who ruined my life and the person who paid them to do it.

There was nothing I could do to get my attackers now – I needed to find them first - but I did have keys to backstabbing Donna Marie’s place. She’d asked me to keep a spare set in case she was ever locked out as I lived nearer to her than her other friends and she hadn’t asked for them back. No doubt she was too busy batting her ridiculously long eyelashes at my boyfriend to remember that I had them.

Stopping short of doing a Lorena Bobbitt, there was nothing I could do to them to give them even a taster of the pain they caused me. Mutual friends told me that they’d been seeing each other behind my back even before I was attacked. Clean freak Michael was a dirty rotten cheat.

Whilst he’d been nagging away at me for not putting placemats down on his blessed coffee table, he hadn’t been as OCD-ish when it came to debasing our bed (the one item of furniture we’d bought together) by shagging that filthy little slapper in it. Once I’d though I’d smelt tobacco on the sheets, but he convinced me I was imagining it because neither of us smoked. That bitch once confided in me with a grin that she enjoyed a fly cigarette after sex.

You’d think having a girlfriend who’d almost died would have brought Michael to his senses and made him realize what he could have lost, but no, he sold his place and moved into that bitch’s red-bricked townhouse near the Kelvingrove Art Gallery. Her gran had left it to her favorite granddaughter in her will. There was no way she could have afforded it on her salary as a receptionist at doctor’s surgery, yet  she was always bragging about what a wonderful place she lived in at a time when property prices had skyrocketed in Glasgow and even parking spaces were going for big money.

It was ten o’clock when I got there. I’d timed it so they’d both be at work, but I still took the precaution of ringing the doorbell. I'd no idea what I'd say if one of them appeared but I'm getting good at this lying lark and thinking on my feet.

Nobody came to the door. No curtains twitched either, so I knocked a few times. When nobody answered the door, I used my key and let myself in. As I stepped over the few items of post, I shouted out their names, but got no response.

Satisfied I was alone; I headed for the living room. My eyes were drawn to Michael’s table. It shouldn’t surprise me that it’s here, but seeing his pride and joy there made me feel like I’d been kicked in the stomach. He had set up home with her. Of course, I’d known that, but confronted by the evidence there was no longer any room for denial. He didn’t want me any more.

Up until this moment, I believed I’d accepted it. Come to terms with being dumped. But, I hadn’t. My blood boiled when I caught sight of a few of my DVDs in amongst a pile beside the plasma TV. The bastard had my
Thelma and Louise
. There’s a telltale scratch on the cover. And my copies of
The Office
are there. He bought me it one Christmas and wrote “we’re Jim and Pam.”

When he wasn’t wound up so tight or bedding my so-called friend, Michael had been a good boyfriend. How could he abandon me when I needed him most? What kind of person does that? And. more importantly, what kind of woman would be stupid enough to revolve her life around a creep like that? God help Donna Marie if she got ill or was attacked, she'd get no understanding from Mikey Boy. He'd probably dump her for the girl he was probably already shagging.

Tears streaked my vision and I hated myself for it. I'd though Michael was a closed book and I had better things to cry over.

When I detected movement behind me, I jumped thinking they’d come back.

The breath I’d been holding in was released as the lithe form of Donna Marie’s cat Orpheus, slunk into view. My heart rate returns to normal as I bend down to pet the cat. Orpheus lifted his head and tail in the air and strutted past me. Even cats were turning their backs on me now.

Getting revenge on Michael and Donna Marie had never been at the top of my list of priorities – when I’d pushed my emotions aside and thought about it, her being lumbered with my neat freak ex was punishment enough for her backstabbing - but now I was there I knew I needed to do something.

With little time to plan and the trickiness of getting a sheep's head, I’d come up with a prank that was childish but effective. Donning a pair of rubber gloves I’d brought with me, I smeared the pristine white walls and Michael’s coffee table with the jars of Marmite I found in the cupboards – Michael loves the stuff, whilst I’ve always hated it. I didn’t stop until every available white surface was covered in the brown stuff. Then I did the same to the sheets on the bed, making sure to pull the duvet up so they wouldn't notice it when they climbed into bed. By then, it'd be too late.

Once I was finished, I’d surveyed my handiwork with a satisfied grin, picturing their horrified faces when they came home and thought they’d been victims of a dirty protest. Talking about who could have done this.

Once I was back in the car, I removed my black wig and hid it under the seat, then I’d drove off with the grin still on my face.

Chapter 8

"I bet you like touching us up, dyke bitch."

The speaker was what we call a “half heid” in Glasgow: half of her hair dyed blonde, so the ponytail that came through the baseball cap she’d always wear was that color. It was cheaper to maintain that way. What should have been a pretty face was scrunched up like a discarded candy packet and her baby bump was showcased by a way too small “Baby Mamma” t-shirt that didn’t cover any skin below her belly button.

The prison guard rolls her woe-begotten eyes and sighs. No doubt, she was wishing she did a more pleasurable job, like being Naomi Campbell’s personal assistant or working as a peace envoy in the Middle East.

When I spot Shug hunched over the table, I get a shock. Prison food never did agree with him, but this was more than that. He’d gotten skinnier since the last I’d seen him and his prison uniform hung off his skinny frame. He used to have a quick smile, but today it’s barely a flicker as I sit down opposite him; it’s been replaced by a nervous twitch at the side of his mouth. When he places his bony hands on the table, his nails are bitten down to the quick and there's small bits of dried in blood where he’s been worrying the cuticles.

"Hi, sis. It’s good to see you."

He’s twitching and gazing past me, looking at the other tables. I can’t decide whether he’s expecting to see someone else or he's worried we're being watched.

The doors of the visitors’ room are now closed and the woman from earlier is standing guard looking suitably officious. There are another three guards on duty.

"How are you doing, Shug?"

He relaxed. "Okay, I guess. You’ve to watch when you bend down for the soap and this guy called Bubba wants me to wear some lipstick and call me Kylie. Apart from that, this place is a hotel. Nae worries. Four square meals a day and no bills."

No matter the circumstances, Shug has always been able to make me laugh. Maybe that’s why I’ve never give up on him; he was still my cheeky wee brother, whatever he'd done.

I lean over the table, not close enough to worry the guards on the look out for contraband - any suggestion something’s been passed on meant a full strip and cavity search for the prisoner - so I can speak to him and not be overheard.

“You know why I’m here.”

"Aye, to see your favorite brother. Did you leave some money for me at the desk?"

"Aye. Forty pounds. They tell me that’s the most I can pay in."

A wink. “Thanks. Much appreciated.”

It’s my turn to plant my hands down on the table, bracing myself for what I’ve got to say. More practical that way. 

"Shug, do you know who killed Mum and Dad? Is it anything to do with something you’re involved in?"

My eyes are trained on him, waiting for a reaction. A blink, a flicker, sideways glance. Any suggestion he’s being less than honest. The truth is I stopped believing most of the things Shug said a long time ago. About the time the police turned up at my door looking for a necklace he’d given me as a present; it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to pass off stolen property as a gift. If Shug got you anything, you could guarantee it was stolen. 

He leans over the table and lowers his voice. "No. I wish I did because then I’d get those fuckers. I’ve got a lot of pals in here. Ones that owe me a favor…"

I don’t have time for this, so I cut in, "So, you’re telling me you don’t know who’s behind this?"

"Nope."

He sounds adamant, but then Shug could be out in the rain, splashing through the puddles and still swear it wasn’t raining.

"Shug, nobody kills decent folk like Mum and Dad in that way for no bloody reason. It’s has to be connected to you." I pause remembering the bullets in their heads. "The police say they were shot gangland style. Almost as though they were executed, DI Waddell said. They’re trying to say it was a burglary gone wrong, but I’m not buying it."

I’m aware of the fact that I’ve raised my voice; that I’m getting hysterical and I know I need to rein it in. One of the guards is staring over at us. He could end this visit at any time.

My features relax and my tone’s conciliatory. He won’t tell me if he realizes how angry I’m with him. "You can tell me, you know. I won’t be angry. I need to know."

Not so much as a flicker from Shug. Any pretence of being calm disappears as my throat tightens. I’d put all my hopes on Shug knowing something. If he doesn’t I’m back to square one.

"Sis,” he says, eyes fixed on mine, “If I knew anything, I’d tell you."

Shug isn’t a professional thief (he gets caught far too often), but he’s a professional liar and I know he’s lying because his lips are moving.

"You know, Shug, I can’t believe that you'd lie to me. After what happened, you owe me an explanation. This has to be linked to you; it’s got to be. Why else would this have happened?"

My heartfelt plea falls on deaf ears. I cut the visit short with Shug’s denials ringing in my ears and the sickening knowledge that yet again my own brother is lying to me.

Chapter 9 

As he watched his sister go, Shug Kerr felt the first stirring of what he remembered was guilt. He hadn't felt this way in so long he almost didn't recognize it, but there it was like a tiny piece of pie pastry being peeled away, exposing the chunks of meat hidden underneath. He knew he was to blame for all of it, but he couldn’t admit that to Nancy because that would put her in danger. If they came for her again, this time they wouldn’t botch the job. 

When he got back to his cell, he jumped as a shadow appeared inside the doorway. He’d been expecting this. McNab wasn’t the kind of man you messed with without payback; even when you hadn't set out to mess with him. How was he to know it was McNab's bird he and Kenny had burgled?

Shug’s body relaxed when he saw who was standing in the doorway. "Oh, it’s only you Mr. Thomas."

For a screw, Thomas was one of the decent ones. A bit of a ball-breaker when it came to rules and regulations, but as straight as they came. There was no chance of him “doing you a wee favor,” but he wasn’t liable to have you dragged off to solitary on some trumped up charge because he didn’t think you showed him enough respect when you said “good morning.”

"Where’s Ferguson?"

Shrug thumbed his finger in the direction of the toilet. "He’s in the bog. Been there for a while, making all sorts of noises, Sir. Sounds like his gut’s exploding. Must be that stew Herriot made."

As if on cue, a sound like a sink being unblocked comes from the toilet, followed by groaning noises.

"Yes," said Mr. Thomas, distracted. "He’s not noted for his culinary excellence."

Something about the way Mr. Thomas was hovering there was making Shug nervous. Normally, he’d come in for a wee word and march off to check on some of the other inmates.

Shug eyed him wearily. "Can I help you with anything, Mr. Thomas?"

"No, Kerr. I don’t think you can."

Mr. Thomas stood there stiff as a rod, dithering in the doorway as Shug sat on his bed. The screw’s huge forehead was made bigger by the fact he was bald and had one long caterpillar brow. He was sweating. He used his hand to wipe some of the dampness away.

He didn’t look well.

"Are you okay, sir?"

The guard said nothing for a few minutes then eyed Shug. "You know how sometimes we don’t want to do things, but we’re forced to, son?"

Fear slithered its way up Shug’s gut. The screw was there to kill him. He’d heard stories of prison guards having their families taken hostage so they’d do whatever folk asked. McNab must have got to Thomas, somehow. For a price anybody would do over anybody.

When he reached into his inside pocket, Shug lurched to one side expecting a blow or the glint of a blade. Except none came.

The guard's face relaxed. "Sorry, son. Just waxing lyrically here, that’s all."

No, Shug didn’t know.

"Here, this letter came for you through that email a prisoner scheme thing. Handy scheme that."

The thing in his pocket wasn’t a weapon of some kind - it was just a letter.

Shug's heart went back to its usual beat. "Thanks Mr. Thomas, I appreciate you bringing it to me personally."

As Shrug watched the screw bolt out the door and head towards the sound of someone’s head being used as a nail, Shug felt stupid. Imagine thinking Mr. Thomas was going to kill him.

When Fergie came out of the toilet, his hair was plastered to his forehead as if he’d put it down the bowl a few times and flushed. The stench that wafted out of the bog reminded Shug of a slurry pit he’d once cleaned for a farmer. He'd done it so he could raid the house when the old boy was asleep. Hard work was something Shug usually avoided at all costs.

Shug pinched his nose with two fingers. "Bloody hell, Fergie, that’s minging."

Fergie didn’t answer. His face was the color of the putty they put in windows to plug the gaps and he was holding something in his hand.

It wasn’t until he was inches away that Shug saw the improvised knife and his stomach clenched.

"I don’t have the skids. I needed time to make this. Away from you."

His voice was dull.

"What are you doing with that, man? Don’t do anything silly now. You’re due out in two years." Shug was aware his words were coming out like a strangled cat's, but he’d no control over it. He was backed into a corner. He'd never seen this coming. Not Fergie. They were buddies.

He forced his lips into a smile as he eyed his pal, holding a knife and being unsure about using it. One second of hesitation and he'd have to make his move; disarm him.

He held out his hands, palms up as though that’d save him. He needed to offer the man something. Make a deal.

"Fergie, I can tell you where the gun is."

Fergie appeared to be thinking about it for a second giving Shug a glimmer of hope. Then a wry grin crossed his face and he shook his head.

"Nah. McNab's no caring where the gun is now. The lassie doesn't know. You're the only one who does and you need to be dealt with.”

"I thought we were buds." There was a tremble in his voice.

As he tried to duck past and failed, Shug heard someone's desperate whining and wanted to tell that voice to be a man, but then he felt his bladder go and realized he was the whiner.

Fergie kept talking. "Sorry, Shuggy boy. I need to do this. It'll clear all my debts. I'll have a clean slate.” A smile flashed across his face. “Get back with the missus."

With a last desperate glance, a last appeal to friendship, he could do nothing as Fergie thrust the knife into his gut and gave it a twist. Something tore inside him. Fergie’s voice sounded like he was coming from a long way off. 

"Sorry, pal. Just business, you ken..."

Fergie used the same voice he used to cadge a pack of smokes.

Tiny chinks of light danced before Shug’s eyes. They reminded him of the meteor showers he used to watch with his Dad; the pair of them with binoculars and a flask of tea, traipsing around the park in sub zero temperatures…

"We’re all made of light, son," he’d say, as they stood in the pitch dark, gazing up at the sky and wee Shug wondered how many shards of light made up a boy. 

He guessed he’d find that out now.