A Taste for Malice (4 page)

‘Don’t you mean the lowlights?’

She raises her eyebrows in a question. Feeling like an idiot, again, I do as she asks.

I give her the facts in a monotone. When I stop speaking she just sits there and watches me. I’m aware of this technique, in which her aim is to get me to fill in the silence with just a little more detail. In my experience that last piece of added detail can be more telling than everything that has previously been uttered. Most people hate silence and rush to fill it with the first thing they think of and often, with the kind of stress they are feeling, it’s the last thing they want to say.

The silence stretches between us. I cross my arms. She crosses hers. I cross my legs at the ankles. She does the same. This is a technique called mirroring and is meant to show the interviewee that on a subliminal level, the other person is on the same wavelength. The trick for the interviewer is to wait until your subject then begins to mirror your body language, because then you have them, they are on-side and you are in charge. She puts her hands on her lap. I keep mine where they are. I ain’t that easy.

‘What was the worst part of it all?’ she asks.

Interesting question, I think.

‘What was the worst part?’ I search the ceiling for answers and decide I should give her something, then she’ll feel she has done a good job. ‘The worst part was the loss of control.’

‘Loss of control.’ She purses her lips and nods. This pursing of the lips thing is very attractive on her. Maybe I should give her more to think about.

‘I’ve been a policeman for a long time. I’ve been in many dangerous positions. Normally I have the power.’ I swallow. My throat feels tight. ‘Here I was under the control of a psycho.’ Whoa, McBain.

That was maybe a bit too much. The palms of my hands are suddenly slick with sweat. My mind filled with the vision of Leonard’s face. A fleck of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

I wipe my hands slowly on my trousers while I speak, trying to disguise my actions. Ms Gibson misses nothing.

‘How do you aim to get that power back?’

Another good question. Often people who have been damaged in hugely stressful situations try to regain some of the lost power by turning on people weaker than themselves. By asking this question she is trying to ascertain if I am a further risk to my employers.

‘I have no interest in power, Ms Gibson. I just want to do my job and keep the streets safe for ordinary folk like you.’

She doesn’t rise to the bait.

‘You seem well balanced after everything you’ve been through … what did you do to occupy your time while you were convalescing?’

‘Went for long walks. Watched old movies, comedies mostly. There’s nothing to beat a laugh.’ Something Alessandra said earlier tugs at my mind. Something to do with black and white movies.

‘Do you sleep well?’

‘Like a baby,’ I lie.

She lifts her left arm up and turns her wrist so she can look at her watch. It’s a chunky silver piece that would look better on me. Its overtly masculine look contrasts perfectly with her slim wrists.

‘We have five minutes left. Is there anything you would have preferred we talked about for the time remaining?’

‘Your marital status?’ I look for a ring. Nothing there.

‘Unavailable.’

‘If I smile like this?’ I give her a three-quarters view of my face, ‘People tell me this is my best side.’

‘Four minutes left,’ a smile tugs at her mouth.

‘If someone changes their name, what does that say about them?’ I ask.

‘That depends. If that someone is you I might have an opinion.’

‘Let’s say it is.’

She looks at her watch.

‘Oh go on. Just this wee crumb of a question?’ I smile in a way that is meant to be part flirtatious, but probably ends up with me just looking like a simpleton.

‘Depends on the context. I’m guessing this is not you, but a criminal case.’ She pauses. ‘I thought you were only taking care of administrative tasks for now.’

Warning bell. ‘I am. This is actually…’ I pretend to act like a daft laddie, ‘…from a black and white movie.’

‘What’s it called, I might have seen it.’

‘Eeesh, you’re asking me the name of a movie, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast.’ I raise my eyebrows and this time I’m sure I look like I am in the advanced stages of Alzheimers. ‘So what’s your professional opinion, ’cos I’m convinced the scriptwriters on this one got it all wrong.’

‘Well, without knowing too much about the plot line,’ she looks at me with an expression that says she is humouring me, ‘It could be any number of things… like a form of fan worship. Or your parents named you Primrose and you turn out to be a six-foot, eighteen-stone rugby player. Or it could mean you have some sort of delusion. Or it could simply mean you have something to hide.’

‘And this is… was the master bedroom,’ Jim stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared out of the window, not wishing to observe Angela’s reaction. ‘I’ve set up my stuff in the spare room downstairs.’ Her answering smile was stiff, but grateful.

‘Right,’ she said quietly. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her top lip pulled tight between her teeth: a mannerism Jim used to love. It occurred to him that her mind may have misplaced the song sheet, but her body still remembered its tune. Its little foibles were obviously noted so deeply that it would take more than a car crash to erase them.

‘Come in, come in,’ Jim motioned her into the room from the hall.

‘This is the biggest bed ever. I can do big frog jumps on it.’ Ben’s chatter did little to ease the awkwardness between them.

‘Shall we … do you fancy a wee cuppa?’ Jim walked past Angela in the small space between the foot of the bed and the wall while doing his utmost not to touch any part of her with any part of him.

‘Yes. That would be nice. Thank you.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Yes. I’d love one. The tea at the hospital tasted like tar.’

‘Or, if you prefer some time …’

‘Some time … on my own would be nice.’

‘Okay …’ What the hell is the etiquette when you’re bringing home a wife who has no idea who you are, let alone who she is? There are certainly no books in the Mind, Body, Spirit section in the shop for that thorny little problem.

‘I’ll, eh …’ He rubbed his palms on the side of his trousers as if …well, he’d no idea why he did it. ‘I’ll bring you up a cup of tea and you can have a seat. Or a lie down. There’s the remote for the telly. Watch the telly. Have a seat.’ His face felt hot. Christ, he felt like he was twelve, he didn’t know where to put himself.

Ben realising his father was about to leave the room, stood as if his feet were glued to the laminate flooring.

‘C’mon, Ben. Let’s leave mummy on her own for a wee while.’

‘Awww,’ his features contorted.

‘You can come up later … Ben,’ her pause before she said his name made Jim feel that she was about to issue an endearment and then found she couldn’t. ‘I just need a sleep. I’ve been very sick in the hospital.’

‘I
know
that mummy. I came to see you and you wouldn’t wake up. Will you wake up this time?’ He ran to her, put his arms round her thighs, which was as high as he could reach, and his head against her stomach. She patted his head.

‘Of course I will. Just give me ten minutes. Okay?’

‘Let’s go and I’ll put on
He-Man
cartoons.’ Bribery was an essential tool in this parent’s toolkit and this was one occasion when it was absolutely necessary. Normally
He-Man
was deemed too violent and kept as a treat for when he was a really good boy.

‘Yeah.
He-Man
.’ He jumped up and down and then ran from the room.

Angela sat on the edge of the bed while placing as little of herself on it as was possible without falling off. ‘Ben, Ben, Ben.’ She whispered to herself and then the skin of her face heated as she read Jim’s quizzical expression. What had she been doing? Trying to remember his name?

‘He …he’s a lovely, wee boy. You’ve done a great job with him.’ She ventured a smile.

‘
You’ve
done a great job with him.’ He corrected her. ‘You gave up work to stay at home with him.’

‘Oh,’ she responded as if Jim was talking about someone else. ‘What did I do before… him?’

‘Daddy?’ Ben’s voice sounded from the living room.

‘You were a social worker.’

‘Oh.’

‘Daddy?’ Ben’s tone was more strident.

Angela ran her fingers through her hair, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I have so many …’

‘…questions. I know. Let’s take it easy for now.’ Dr Bodrum’s advice as they left the hospital grounds was that Angela should take her time and not overload her brain with information.

‘Only answer the question she asks. It would be too much if you gave her all of her life story at the one time.’ He said and paused while he deliberated further. ‘By all means do look at photographs, videos
et-cet-e-ra
,’ he carefully enunciated each syllable. ‘It may spark off a memory or even a chain of memories. But do take your time. Too much stimulation too soon will overload her and she will tire very quickly.’

‘DADDY.’

‘Coming, Ben.’ Jim turned to Angela. She had opened a drawer to look at the clothes inside. ‘When you want your tea, just give me a shout.’

Wishing he had something stronger, Jim made himself a coffee, with a mug, kettle and spoon all chosen by the woman upstairs. Everything in this house was her; her taste, her personality and none of it was familiar to her. She’d looked through the house as if she were a polite viewer at a house sale. A “that’s nice” or “mmm” accompanied each fresh object that she had initially deliberated over and savoured for hours. For Jim this was symbolic of the change in her. Before the accident, well, before the separation, he used to joke that all she needed was two pillows, a throw and ten pounds and she could turn a prison cell at Barlinnie into a display for Homes & Gardens.

Her lack of attention paid to Ben was similarly chilling, if a little more understandable. To be suddenly told that you have a four-year-old son would set anyone back on his or her heels, but her calm manner when looking through the house highlighted her estrangement from everything she once held dear.

Angela eventually came downstairs. She looked half-sized and terrified and Jim wanted to hold her until all her questions were answered, until she understood everything, until she stopped shaking. He wanted to lift that strand of hair from her brow and slide it to the side, kiss the space it had covered and reassure her that everything would turn out just perfect.

But he daren’t. The brain injury and the damage to her memory meant that he was in effect a stranger: a strange man.
Stranger Danger
is public hazard number one, isn’t that what people told their families? And here she was, effectively locked in a house with one. Yes, she could leave, but where would she go? Who would she go with? How would she then start to remember?

Watching her sit on the chair, her eyes now focused on her mug of coffee, Jim’s resolve was strengthened: he couldn’t tell her that they were separated, on the verge of a divorce. The one adult
in
her life, who was really no longer a part of it? That knowledge would have been just too much for her at that point.

Judging the right time to tell her would be fraught. There never was going to be a right time. Jim just knew it had to wait. He’d give her a few weeks. Until she felt safe they’d sleep in separate rooms. No matter how long it took. Nothing should be allowed to happen to further complicate matters.

Then when she did find out that he’d lied to her from the start, it wouldn’t be
too
hard on her. The logic of a desperate man, or what?

He made a mental list of all the people who might say the wrong thing. Angela’s parents were both dead and she was an only child. His parents would know the truth and could be trusted, up to a point. Although they had never really taken to Angela, they loved Jim and they absolutely adored Ben; they would do nothing to endanger that regular contact.

Jim’s friends and workmates were a different story. He’d have to come up with something believable, something so
ordinary
that they wouldn’t feel the need to remark upon it to Angela whenever they saw her.

That left Kirsty: Angela’s best friend, pretty much her only real friend. They had grown up together, gone through every major life event together. They were the kind of friends who might not see each other for months and click in together as if only moments had passed since their last meeting.

They always made a point of being together for either one’s birthday. Apparently they had made some girlish pact that wherever they were in the world, whoever they were with, they would drop everything and travel to be with the other.

They hadn’t managed to maintain this since Ben was born, but in Kirsty’s last Christmas card she highlighted her determination that they should get back into the habit.

Kirsty’s birthday was in June sometime. That meant Jim had about six weeks to be firmly placed in Angela’s life. Six weeks to make a bond that even Kirsty would struggle to break.

And here’s the bad news — Kirsty hates Jim’s guts. No, that’s putting it mildly. She would wear his intestines as a garland and dance the hula over his dying body.

My taxi-driver goes back to the office the long way. Instead of heading for Pollokshaws Road and then into the city centre, I direct him to go east on the M8, left for Bishopbriggs and then to take the loop through Torrance to Bearsden and head back into the city centre via Clydebank and then on the Great Western Road.

It always feels strange to me that on the fringe of such a conurbation there are actually wee country roads. There are bound to be kids in the inner city areas who will never have seen real live cows and here we are surrounded by them.

In one field the long grass is spotted with lounging sheep, necks tilted up and their long, white faces pointing at the strong, spring sunshine as they take in some rays.

‘What happened to the rain we normally get at this time of year,’ I ask.