Kill Me Twice: Rosie Gilmour 7 Page 6

  ‘I like Madrid,’ she managed. ‘You used to love it too, Colin. In the old days, when you were a good man. When you loved me.’ She felt the tears come as her voice trailed off.

  ‘Oh, spare me the bloody waterworks! Listen to me! You’re unstable, Millie! Have been for years! When we were young and carefree, I put your exuberance and mood swings down to your artistic nature and all that crap. But you’re mentally ill, Millie. You know that. You’ll never be the woman I loved and married, and you’ve made it much worse by turning into a bloody lush. I can’t take you anywhere these days unless I bloody monitor you at every turn. You’re the biggest disappointment in my life, and I want more than anything to be bloody rid of you. But you know what? I have to be the husband who gets you picked up from hotels and cafes blind drunk. I have to swallow all that. I’ve had it now, Millie. No more! You’re going into therapy and you’re getting some treatment, whether you like it or not.’

  His rant was like blows raining down on her and she lay there, defeated. Any faint hope that Colin would come in and be the man she had once loved was gone. This was who he was. He didn’t want her. He didn’t care about her or where she’d been or what she’d seen in Madrid. If she told him right now that she’d gone to Madrid to commit suicide, he’d say she couldn’t even get that right, smirking as he spoke.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not going anywhere except home,’ Millie protested, her voice weak.

  ‘No, you’re bloody not. I’ve wanted to have you sectioned for years, and your latest antics have given me all the evidence I need. I should have done it that time you fell asleep, drunk, while you were cooking, and set fire to the kitchen. If Conchita hadn’t come in we could all have burned to death. Or the time you drove bladdered drunk and hit the bus stop. If it had been in the middle of the day, you could have killed somebody. But I let it go, thinking you’d get some sense into that nutcase head of yours. Every time you did your disappearing act of late, I told the doctor you were a danger to yourself, but he was giving you time. He’ll back me up all the way now, though. Especially with your meltdown last night, screaming like a fucking lunatic. You’re going in and that’s final.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, this whole debacle could end up in a bloody tabloid newspaper. You inconsiderate idiot!’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Millie said, her voice hurting her throat. But she knew he could. There was enough medical evidence over the years of depression and alcoholism, as well as her erratic behaviour. No doubt he’d been storing it all up for a day like this.

  ‘Yes, I can. Your history, and your latest escapades have confirmed it. I’ve already got my own man in Harley Street to sign the documents. So shut up and take what’s good for you. We’ll see what you’re like after a few months of therapy.’

  Millie burst into tears, her head throbbing with the pressure. ‘Leave me alone! Get out! Oh, God, help me! I just want to die! Please, somebody help me.’

  The door opened and Nurse Bridget came in. She glanced at Millie, then glared at Colin, her eyes telling Millie that she was on her side. She was the first person she’d had on her side for so long. Millie looked at her pleadingly.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, pet?’, she asked. The nurse looked at Colin.

  ‘Christ knows,’ Colin said, irritated. ‘She gets like this a lot.’

  ‘Well, she’s had a real trauma, with some delayed shock. I think it’s best if she has a little more rest now, Mr Chambers, if you don’t mind.’ Her tone was dismissive.

  Colin looked at her and then at Millie. He went across and took her hand but she pulled it back, and twisted her head away when he bent to kiss her. He turned and left. The nurse closed the door behind him.

  ‘It’s all right, pet,’ she said. You’ll be okay. You’re a good person and a fine-looking woman too. Don’t worry.’

  Chapter Seven

  Dan Mason shivered as he stood in the doorway, sheltering from the biting wind. The long sleeved t-shirt clung to his skinny body, and he stood with his hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans, watching every car that passed, hoping it would be his punter. When the text had appeared on his mobile asking him to meet, he would have patched it rather than hang around outside on a shitty night like this. But he was desperate, and his drug debts were mounting. He hadn’t made any money for the last four days, not since Bella . . .

  Even now, despite the newspapers running the story on their front pages, and the TV news with endless updates, Dan still couldn’t take it in. He’d never see his sister again. Ever. The thought brought tears to his eyes and he blinked and swallowed hard. Bella was all he’d had. All they’d ever had was each other, and for nearly twelve years, while Bella was fostered and he was left in the children’s home, they didn’t even have that. He’d cried every day for six months when they’d taken her away. He hadn’t even known where she was, and at one point had been told that she’d been taken to America and had been adopted by a couple there. Why couldn’t they have taken him too? he’d pleaded to the social worker. They only wanted a girl. He was told to toughen up, that Bella was gone. He had to be a strong boy now, like all the others in the children’s home. But despite not seeing her, year in, year out, Dan had never felt totally alone because he knew she was out there, somewhere. Now he had nobody. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand as the tears came.

  Dan lit a cigarette and shook himself out of the gloom. Where the fuck was this punter? He peered out at the line of cars, I’m freezing to death. He took a long draw on his cigarette and coughed till he lost his breath, doubling over. The racking cough was like a knife in his chest. It had been that the way for more than a week now, and it was getting worse. Standing here without a jacket didn’t help, and he cursed the robbing bastard who had stolen it from the hostel. It was Bella who’d given it to him as a present the last time they’d met, and he’d treasured it. He’d even slept in it most nights, wherever he could get his head down, which was often under the Jamaica Bridge along with the other junkies and down-and-outs. He’d only taken it off in the hostel because he’d woken up in a pool of sweat with a raging temperature. He’d folded it carefully and put it under his head, but when he woke up in the morning it was gone.

  Dan was about to give up on the punter when he spotted a car flashing its headlights. He stepped out of the doorway and glanced up and down Waterloo Street as the blue Ford Mondeo pulled in to the kerb. He opened the door and got in.

  ‘Awright, son?’

  ‘Fucking freezing, man! Some bastard stole my jacket. The only one I had.’

  The punter half smiled as he shot him a sideways glance, then pulled out into the traffic. Dan stared out of the window as the car went through Anderston bus station and along Argyle Street. He knew where they were headed. It was always a deserted car park in one of the side streets at the end of Broomielaw. Nearly every week, the same routine. The car pulled into the side street and up to the top of the road, then into the car park. Dan felt his body tense. This shit never got any easier. Not just with this guy, but with any of the punters. He hated putting himself through it, but it was all about survival. It always had been. Even the first time, when he was only eight, instinct had told him it was safer to say nothing.

  The punter switched off the engine, and as they sat in the darkness, he could hear his breath quicken. Dan shifted his body so he was facing him, his knees apart. He knew the drill. The punter reached across and fondled his penis through his jeans. He didn’t seem to mind that there was no response, and ran his hand down Dan’s skinny thighs, caressing him. There was something almost tender about it. Then he unzipped his trousers and pulled Dan’s hand across, pushing it inside. He was already hard. Dan began to move his hand up and down as the punter leaned back making little moaning sounds. He placed his hand on Dan’s head, running his fingers through the blond hair and gripping it tight. He looked Dan in the eye. ‘Come on, son. Get on with it. I’m dying here.’

  He pushed Dan’s head down. Dan took him in his mouth
, closing his eyes tight as he worked. At least it wouldn’t take long. He could hear the punter’s breath come in short gasps as he muttered and cursed, then shouted, ‘Fuck!’ as Dan brought him to a shuddering climax. Dan opened the passenger door, spat on the ground, then wiped his mouth with a tissue from a box on the dashboard.

  They sat in silence while the punter sorted himself and Dan stared out of the windscreen at the garbage swirling in the wind. He could hear the rustle of notes as the punter switched on the engine. Dan’s eyes lit up when he handed him three tenners. ‘Get yourself a jumper or something, son. You’ll freeze to death.’

  Dan had to bite his lip to stop himself crying at this simple act of kindness. In spite of all the shit, there was time for kindness. Then suspicion flooded him. ‘I don’t do anything else. Just the blow-job. Okay?’

  The punter nodded. ‘Fine by me. You want to be dropped where I picked you up?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  They drove back to the city centre in silence. Dan got out of the car and looked back in at the punter.

  ‘See you later, son. Take care of yourself.’

  Dan closed the door and walked quickly towards the cafe where he knew he could get a burger and a tenner bag of heroin from the guy on the till.

  *

  Dan was woken by someone shaking him. He opened one eye. ‘Fuck me, Mitch! I was asleep!’

  ‘I know, man. Sorry. But I’ve been looking for you for four fucking days. I thought you’d topped yourself.’

  Dan sniffed, his eyes focusing in the dark. He took a breath, but it hurt his chest and he started to cough.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, man. You got some kind of lurgy? You sound like my da before he died of fucking emphysema.’

  Dan stopped coughing and took a short breath. ‘Don’t know. Think I’ve got some kind of infection.’

  ‘You need to go to a doctor.’

  Dan sat up. ‘Aye, fine. Can you just phone my doctor and ask him to do a house call?’ He shook his head, sweating but freezing. ‘I don’t have a doctor. I don’t even have a fucking address, man.’

  Mitch lay down close to him, pulling his own blanket over him. ‘Well, we need to see the doctor tomorrow. We’ll go up to the hospital.’

  ‘I was coughing blood this morning,’ Dan said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Fuck me, man! I hope I don’t catch anything from you.’ Mitch sniggered and snuggled in. ‘Come on. Back to sleep.’

  *

  From the park bench in Glasgow Green, Dan and Mitch watched the customers come and go into the People’s Palace, an elegant city landmark straddling the line between the prosperous city centre and the run-down East End. They’d attempted to go into the cafe in the Palace’s Victorian glasshouse for breakfast an hour ago, but were turned away at the door by a receptionist who could tell a mile off they were a couple of junkies. They’d bounced away with a one- finger salute, and headed for the cafe off London Road that served the best Coca-Cola iced drinks. They’d smoked some heroin in one of the boarded-up squats in the Calton, after Mitch had returned triumphant from Argyle Street with a padded jacket he’d shoplifted for Dan.

  ‘It’s nice this,’ Dan said, admiringly running his hand down the sleeve. He zipped it up to the neck and sat back, his face upturned to the sun. ‘Feels really warm.’

  ‘No worries, Dan. I don’t want you peggin’ out on me.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Listen, mate. I’ve got something I want to talk about.’

  Dan turned to him, blinking one eye against the glare of the sun. ‘Aye? What?’

  ‘It’s about your sister. Bella.’

  Dan said nothing for a while and they sat in silence. Then he looked at Mitch. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you really think somebody might have shoved her off that roof in Madrid? Like, murdered her?’

  Dan sighed. He put a hand into his jacket pocket, took out a cigarette, lit it, and coughed as he inhaled. He spat on the ground.

  Mitch leaned forward. ‘There’s fucking blood in that, man!’

  Dan sniffed and composed himself, taking another draw. ‘I know. Fucking hurts too.’ He took a few shallow breaths, then turned to Mitch. ‘Aye. I do think somebody killed Bella.’ He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘But listen, Mitch. Nobody knows she was my sister. That’s how it was, how it had to be between us.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘It just did, right? Bella . . . I didn’t see her for twelve years. She was already famous when she found me. I was a fucked-up wreck, a junkie. That’s why.’

  Dan could still picture the moment he’d seen Bella after they’d been apart since he was nine years old. The image gave him a physical pain in his heart. He stared straight ahead.

  ‘Listen, mate. I want to tell you something. Er . . . I don’t want you to get mad at me. It was after that day when you saw the paper and collapsed and stuff. I was really shocked. And, well, I talked to somebody.’

  Dan shifted his body to face him. ‘What? You fucking told somebody? Fuck me! Who?’

  After a few beats, Mitch answered: ‘A reporter. From the Post.’

  It took a few seconds to sink in. Then he leaned back, looking up at the sky.

  ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake, man! You spoke to a reporter? Are you fucking kidding me? What if the papers find me? That can’t happen. It’s too dangerous.’

  Mitch was confused. ‘What do you mean, too dangerous?’

  ‘Just is.’ He shook his head. ‘Listen, Mitch. There’s a lot more to this. It’s . . . It’s just . . . Aw, man, I don’t know what to say now in case you go running to the fucking papers.’

  ‘Maybe it’s you who should go to the papers, Dan. Go to the cops, if you’re scared. Tell them why.’ He paused. ‘Why are you scared, anyway?’

  Dan shook his head and flicked his cigarette away. The last time he and Bella had met, she’d picked him up in a taxi and taken him to the hotel she was staying at, made him have a shower and given him a new set of clothes, including the new jacket that some other homeless fucker was now wearing. Then she’d made him eat some soup. He remembered her crying as he was leaving, hugging him close. He could still smell her perfume, feel the softness of her hair on his cheek. They’d talked for hours and she’d told him everything. It was the first time they had ever spoken about the abuse that had happened when they were children, the nights when they were taken away, the strangers who came in and took them from their beds. Not just them, but others too. Bella had said she couldn’t cope with it any more, that she had been taking cocaine to get through her demanding work schedule, but also, because she was crying for days on end. They’d talked about going to the police then. And look what had happened.

  ‘I can’t tell you. I can’t talk about it. Just leave it.’

  ‘Why don’t you at least meet the reporter? She’s quite a nice bird.’

  ‘You’ve fucking met her?’

  ‘Aye. I’m sorry. I was trying to help.’

  ‘Yeah, Mitch. Trying to get some fucking money out of her. Don’t try to hump me, man. You’re supposed to be my mate. I thought you were my friend. You . . . You’re all I’ve got.’

  Dan put his head into his hands. He jerked away when Mitch’s arm went round his shoulders, but Mitch persisted. Eventually he turned and sobbed into his chest.

  ‘Come on, man. I’m sorry. I am your friend. But listen, something’s wrong. I can feel it. Something’s wrong inside your head.’

  ‘I’m scared, Mitch. I just want to die so I can be with Bella.’

  ‘No, you don’t, mate. I won’t let you die. I’ll look after you. I promise.’

  They sat hugging each other, and Mitch gently stroked the back of Dan’s head, as the midday sun warmed the chilly Glasgow morning, filling it with promise.

  Chapter Eight

  Rosie stood by McGuire’s desk along with Bob, the picture editor, all three of them watching his screen, eagerly waiting for the pictures to drop. José, the concierge in Madrid, had proved to be
a belter of a contact, going about his task like a detective, picking up any information at the Hotel Senator that he thought would be useful to her. The four hundred euro the editor’s office had arranged to wire him was no doubt the driving force, but Rosie was more than impressed by his enthusiasm. He’d called her this morning to say his friend on the night shift had gone through the spare copy of the CCTV and found pictures of the two men he’d described to her, who had arrived at the party that night. One had given Bella a wrap of what he believed to be cocaine.

  The pictures dropped onto the screen one by one. First, the muscled guy with the bleached-blond hair, then his squat mate with the brick-shithouse frame. A third opened, and Rosie’s eyes popped. It wasn’t the greatest shot in terms of clarity, but Bella Mason, in her blue gown, was clearly identifiable, and it looked as though she was being handed something.

  ‘Can you pull that up, Bob?’ Mick said. ‘Make it less grainy?’

  ‘I should be able to enhance it a bit. The more we home in on it, the less clear it is, but the geeks downstairs understand these things. I’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘Are these two gorillas the blokes he was talking about, who turned up and weren’t on the guest list?’

  The editor was addressing Rosie, but didn’t take his eyes off the screen as Bob zoomed in on the faces.

  ‘Yep. That’s how he described them. In fact the pictures so far show exactly what José described when I talked to him that day, before he’d even seen the CCTV. So he’s spot on with his information.’

  ‘I might have to give the guy a job,’ McGuire quipped. ‘He’s shit hot.’ He sat back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘Of course, using these at this time will be a problem because the cops have taken the CCTV as part of their investigation, so it’s evidence.’