Thorn In My Side (12 page)

Passing Sandham
Lane, he headed for the castle. The road was busy with tourists. To
his right was an ice cream van that looked like it was doing a
roaring trade, and next to it a fish and chip van, equally
busy.

He carried on
down towards the castle, one of many in the north- east of England.
Being a sixteenth-century castle, this one was much younger than a
lot of castles in the area. Lindisfarne’s position in the North Sea
had made it vulnerable to attacks not only from the Scots, but from
the Vikings as well. The island had once been a very volatile area
and had a fascinating history.

As he walked
towards the castle, in his mind's eye the tourists became Vikings
on the rampage. He flinched as one huge warrior strode towards him.
Keeping his eyes directly in front of him, Smiler kept on walking,
telling himself over and over that Mike was right, it was all just
his imagination.

The warrior,
complete with horned headgear, holding a shield in one hand and a
spear in the other, kept on coming. Behind him a huge band of
warriors, all glaring ferociously at Smiler, kept pace with their
leader.

Smiler stared
in terror, then blinked rapidly when Tiny pulled on his lead. But
the huge man kept on coming and remained a Viking -- until he
passed Smiler’s peripheral vision, when he became a family man in
blue T-shirt and jeans. Smiler turned his head quickly, and stared
out at the empty sea. As a party of tourists passed behind him, he
let out the breath he wasn’t aware that he’d been holding, then
shuddered. It seemed as if a cloud had suddenly covered the
sun.

He reached the
castle. To his immense relief, the Vikings had faded, and normal
twenty-first century people walked back and forth. A group of about
thirty people hung on to a tour guide’s every word. Lovers walked
past hand in hand, basking in the late afternoon sunshine. A couple
of old men with walking sticks stepped out of the way of a party of
pre-teen school children. None of them gave Smiler a second look,
although Tiny drew admiring glances, and many pats -- which, as
usual, he accepted fawningly.

Smiler found
the island fascinating, and much larger than he’d first thought.
The air was bracing, and the sun shining. He actually felt more at
home after only a few hours than he had anywhere in his life.
Certainly Aunt May’s cottage was really welcoming, much more than
any place he’d ever lived with the woman he’d called mother.

He ran the
fingers of his right hand down the scars of his left arm, paused a
moment, each slash fresh in his mind, then reversed the
process.

If only… if
only life had been different.
He could still see his mother's
face. Just over thirty she’d been when she’d died, and had looked
sixty years old or more. She had never shown him any love that he
could remember. The only touch his skin had felt from her hands had
been a hard slap or a punch. He often wondered why she just hadn’t
aborted him. No life at all would have been better than the one
she’d given him.

Why had she let
those things happen to him?

Why hadn’t she
tried harder?

He tried to put
her out of his mind. Every time he thought of her, he knew, he just
got upset. He was starting a new life, another chance, thanks to
Mike.

Hold onto
that thought
, he told himself,
think of Mike, think of
anything.
Snakes raking in the gutter for his gear, his
first proper Macky Dee’s with Mike, Aunt May’s leggy flowers. But
he wasn’t strong enough. He shuddered, and the sky began to darken.
His breathing became harsh. A small doorway opened in his mind. He
tried hard to close it, but the rift grew bigger, letting things
slip through, things he didn’t want to remember, things that should
stay buried, things that crushed his soul.

A moment later
they faded, and a girl with long dark hair lay huddled in a field,
crying for help. She was weak, terrified and a long way from home.
Her fear transferred to Smiler as he sank deeper and deeper into
the abyss of his own mind.

She sank into
the grass. Thankfully, the driver of the car hadn’t seen her. She’d
panicked for nothing. When the car, lorry, whatever the damn thing
had been, hadn’t stopped, she’d walked for another three hours, and
now she was totally exhausted. Looking down at her poor aching
feet, she bit her lip. She’d used her lighter to burn the stitching
round the sleeves of her short jacket, then, ripping the sleeves
off, she had shoved her feet into them, doubling them over. To be
able to walk she’d had to leave her toes exposed. Each one was cut
and bleeding, and the sleeves were worse than useless now. Blood
was seeping through the holes, mixing with the dry earth to make
mud and infection.

She sighed, a
pitiful lonely sound in the silence of the empty field. The last
thing a diabetic needs is damaged feet. That bottle top she’d
pulled out had hurt like hell, but she couldn’t even remember
standing on the damn thing.

Taking the
remaining sweets out of her pocket, she stared at them for a
moment. Knowing there was nothing else she could do, she put a
handful in her mouth and started to chew.

Tears fell
unchecked down her face. She had always found self pity pathetic,
but she had never been in a situation so frightening in her life.
Looking around, she guessed that somehow she’d wandered inland,
which was what she’d intended. She also figured that she was near
the village of Fenwick, a small hamlet three or four miles from
Holy Island. Her heart sank, even further than she thought was
possible. This was a place she definitely didn’t want to be, far
too close to the brothers and him! She had planned on being much,
much further inland than this.

She knew she
couldn’t walk any further, and that in a few more hours she would
without doubt be in a coma. She’d tried to fight this damn disease,
like she knew better than the doctors. It got her as it always
would, and with a vengeance. If she’d been alone that night, six
years ago, when she had stubbornly denied that there was anything
wrong with her, and her sugar had dropped so low it hardly had a
reading, she could have gone so far under that the way back would
have been nigh on impossible.

Damn it… Why
the hell did I have to be the one to get it? There
are
millions of other people in the world.

Why me?

If I didn’t
have diabetes, I could have gone on, escaped – but I’m
fucking well cursed.

'Shit!!!' she
screamed with frustration, startling a flock of seagulls that took
flight, screeching their way into the air.

'And that’s all
I need, somebody wondering what the hell’s frightened youse ugly
lot. Ohh. Damn, damn, damn.'

The tears came
again, thick and fast as she looked around her, wondering what to
do. It gave her only small satisfaction to remember how hard she’d
bitten down on that creepy bloke’s hand, running away, screaming
and spitting blood out of her mouth, a taste she had no fancy for.
Really it had been nothing short of a miracle that she’d escaped at
all.

Sighing, as a
feeling of total, utter helplessness came over her, she folded in
on herself and sank to the ground. Staring at sharp blades of
grass, she cried some more. Then slowly a look of determination
came over her face.

'Sod them,' she
murmured, lifting her face to the sky and feeling the warm sun on
her skin. 'Sod the fucking lot of them… Who the hell do they think
they are, coming here with their freaky plans? Bunch of fucking
creeps… Well, I’m not dead yet!'

Slowly,
stubbornly, she struggled to her feet. The main problem, she
figured, was finding somebody to trust, as well as finding somebody
who would even believe her.

'One thing I
know for sure.' She took a step, then another, stuck her chin out
and muttered defiantly, 'I’m not dying in this fucking field.'

He doesn’t
look like a murderer. But then, really, not a lot of people do.
OK, if you have any sense you can spot the nutters right off,
but
that doesn’t necessarily make them all murderers. Mostly
the real
culprits wear a sane mask that can fool even the
best of
policemen, as well as judges, doctors and
lawyers
, Mike thought, as he watched the man through the
two-way glass. This one had been picked up running amok, covered in
blood, in the main street.
But is it a sure- fire bet that he’s
guilty?

Mike was
waiting for Detective Kristina Clancy. It had been a surprise to
find her working in Berwick. A nice surprise, because she hadn’t
changed one little bit. She came thudding down the corridor, her
brown eyes laughing. He was surprised to see she’d grown her hair,
and now sported a saucy fringe.

Mike smiled.
Late as usual.

As they sat
down and Kristina switched the tape on, Danny Wilson looked up.
Having been told in full detail how the girl had died, Kristina was
finding it hard to hide her feelings. She threw Danny a look of
undisguised disgusted.

'OK. Care to
tell us what happened?' Mike asked, his voice quiet but laced with
steel.

'I don’t know,'
Danny sobbed, 'you’ve got to believe me, I don’t know…'

He looked at
them both in turn, his eyes wide with amazement, shocked to find
himself in this predicament, before hurrying on. 'I was at the
hospital all night, honest. Ask my mate Evan, he’ll tell you. Then…
then I fell asleep on the bench outside… I went in a couple of
hours later and… and there she was… Oh,' his face lit up, 'the
milkman, he’ll tell you… Yes, the milkman… he woke me up, he did,
because I was asleep on the bench, he’ll tell you.' Danny nodded
his head adamantly, pleased that he’d remembered at least one
person who had seen him.

'Name of the
dairy?' Kristina asked.

'Don’t know.'
Danny kept hold of his hands to stop them from shaking.

'We’ll find
out.'

Danny tried a
small smile, but it was rewarded by a frozen stare that made him
even more nervous. He swung his face towards Mike. No joy there.
The glaring look he received was worse than the one from the
woman.

'So you truly
expect us to believe that someone broke in and murdered your
girlfriend while you slept outside?' Mike asked, with raised
eyebrows.

'A likely
story.' Kristina snorted. Without giving Danny a chance to say
anything, she went on, 'Have yer seen what yer’ve done to her, you
mad bastard?'

'I haven’t done
anything.' Danny’s voice was rising higher by the second, panic
obvious in every word he uttered as he stared at Kristina and Mike
in turn. 'Honest, it wasn’t me… It was not me… It was not
me.
'

'Where’s the
weapon?' Mike asked. 'Where did you manage to hide it?'

'What weapon?'
Danny frantically looked around. The room was small, bare cream
walls, one desk, four chairs, one door. His eyes skittered back to
the door. The surface was covered in scratches. His imagination
went wild. He pictured people trying to claw their way out of here.
His heart lurched, pounding in his ears. The walls, the doors,
everything was closing in on him. There was no escape. How could he
get out of here?

'Where is the
weapon?' Mike demanded again, leaning forward over the desk.

Weapon?
Danny’s mind struggled to get round what they were saying.
I
wouldn’t hurt her. I’ve never once lifted my hands to Shelly, never
mind use a weapon!

What sort of a
weapon?

A knife?

A gun?

Judging by
the hate in the eyes of these two
coppers, it has to have
been a pretty nasty weapon.

Oh Jesus.

And the way
the woman cop keeps looking at me as if I’m some sort of an animal
is
seriously freaking me out.

What am I
supposed to have done?

'I love
Shelly,' he blustered, glancing quickly from one to the other.

'Fine way of
showing it,' Kristina said. 'Just admit it, tell us what happened
and it’ll all be over… Cuppa tea, nice long rest, maybes even a
shower.' She smiled sweetly at him.

Danny looked at
the woman in amazement.
Is she
taking the piss?

Mike, his voice
now soft and chatty, said, 'Did she annoy you, is that why you
killed her? We both know how annoying women can be, don’t we?
Promise you the moon, then change their minds when you’re up and
ready for it.'

'Or,' Kristina
suddenly snapped, 'find her in bed with one of your mates, eh? So
yer thought yer would just kill her for having sex with someone
else, even though you play those sort of games? That’s it, isn’t
it? Male ego hurting, was it? So just kill her, eh? Restore the
balance of power? Is that how it was?'

'
No
…
What games? I don’t know what you’re talking about… I didn’t kill
Shelly, why would I? You’ve got it all wrong.' Danny jumped up,
judging the distance to the door. He had to get out of this
nightmare.

'Sit down,'
Kristina said.

For a brief
moment, Danny glanced down at her. Suddenly unable to control his
fear and panic, he made a bid for the door, only to be blocked by
Mike, who grabbed him from behind and forced him back into his
seat.

'Try that
again, and I’ll fucking well see that you’re incapable of even
walking again, never mind running.' The words had been whispered in
Danny’s ear so that the tape wouldn’t pick them up, as Kristina
conveniently coughed as loud as she could.

'I want a
solicitor.' Shaking, Danny slumped in his seat.

Mike nodded at
Kristina to switch the tape off. Kristina spoke into the mike,
ending the session, then turned it off.

'I just bet you
want a solicitor. Realised what you’ve done now?' Mike slapped his
palms hard on the desk, and Danny, his eyes bulging in fear,
jumped.