A Taste for Malice (14 page)

‘Where are you going?’ Jim asked when she pulled the door open.

‘I’m going as far away from you as possible.’ She took a step out of the door, stopped and turned. ‘If I ever see you again, I hope it’s in a coffin.’ Jim would never forget the look on her face.

‘But …’ Let me think about this, Jim wanted to say.

Give me time to wrestle down all of these thoughts and emotions into some sort of coherent shape.

‘But nothing, Jim. Grow up. Be a man. And be grateful you’re still breathing.’ With that last comment Kirsty walked out of the room, throwing him a look of the purest hate.

Over the years since, Jim had given little thought to Kirsty and the state of their brief relationship, but now it filtered through. After his initial split with Angela, she’d pursued him with a vigour that both surprised and flattered him. There were phone calls and chance meetings in places where she must have known he would be. Why not, he thought at the time. They were both single.

Kirsty sealed it with a wondrous handjob in an alley down the side of Jim’s favourite pub. Kirsty had said she was too hot, would he mind going outside to keep her company?

She walked ahead and as soon as they were in the dark of the lane his trousers were round his ankles. Later Jim had no idea how it happened so quickly. It seemed one second he was at the bar and the next he was feeling the most intense pleasurable experience of his life. She worked at his belt and zipper and then turned Jim round till he was facing away from her. Her hand reached round and pumped at his cock, while she was pressed against his back. For a brief moment Jim felt as if this whole exercise was for her benefit alone. As if she was imagining the dick in her hands belonged to her.

Then he disengaged his brain and allowed the pleasure to take over. Keeping the speed of her hand movement consistent, Kirsty moved. Still behind him, she was on her knees. Jim felt something warm and wet probe the cleft of his arse.

‘Ohmygod,’ he shuddered, grunted and it was all over.

Jim reviewed in his head just what had happened. ‘Fuck.’ Was all he could manage. He wanted it again. No-one in his limited sexual history so far had appeared quite this keen. He was completely, fully, head over heels in lust.

This incident became the pattern of their brief relationship. Within seconds of meeting, Jim’s trousers would be at his ankles and Kirsty would have her full focus on his cock. She couldn’t get enough of it. Strangely, she rarely let him touch her. He could play with her breasts as much as he liked and on a number of occasions she allowed him to slide his cock between them until he came over her chin and cheeks, but she wouldn’t allow him to go below her waist. Full fucking was a no no.

Aren’t you having enough fun, she would demand? On one occasion Jim tried not to take no for an answer. His cock was so hard only the heat and moisture between her legs could satisfy him.

No matter how much he cajoled, pressed or pestered Kirsty remained resolute. The answer was no.

‘Why?’ Jim asked, pulling at the buckle of her belt.

‘Just leave it, Jim. The answer is no.’

‘Oh, c’mon,’ he pleaded. ‘We’ve done everything else.’

‘Jim, you’re starting to really piss me off.’ Her lips were pursed tight. Her face was white, her body stiff with anger. She turned and walked towards the door. Jim moved quicker, not bothered that he was naked from the waist down. He reached the door before her and barred her exit.

‘What is it, do you want to be a virgin when you get married? Is that it?’

She clenched a fist in front of Jim’s face. He raised an eyebrow in defiance. His look said, go on try it. I don’t hit girls, but I won’t let you hurt me. She looked uncertain. For the first time she was not the one in control. Her shoulders slumped and she moved back to the bed. She sat down, eyes brimming with tears. This was a first. Jim had rarely seen emotion on Kirsty’s face. She mumbled something and a tear shone on her cheek. Jim’s ardour was flattened by the weight of Kirsty’s discomfort. He felt like the world’s biggest arsehole.

‘Oh, babe,’ said Jim. ‘I’m so sorry.’ What on earth had happened to this girl to make her so keen for cock but unable to deal with him getting into her pants? And what was she mumbling? Sounded like she was saying,
dirty, dirty, dirty
. Over and over again.

Minutes later her mood had swung back to having fun. Jim was naked. It would be a shame to waste it. Then she encouraged him to masturbate in front of her, giggling as his semen shot on to her face and hair. She even turned it into a game and gave him points for how far the first spurt reached, or giving him the target of her upper lip, her right eyebrow or her nose to aim at.

Part of his mind noted this was the only time he saw Kirsty smile; really smile. Apart from when she was involved in her other fixation, Simon Le Bon. The remainder of his mind was caught up in the erotic charge of it all and he set the issue aside as something to think on in the cold half-light of the morning after.

Tenderness was another issue. In public, Kirsty was happy for Jim to hold her hand or place an arm over her shoulder. It was as if that was a badge of normality. But whenever they were on their own it was a different matter and if Jim tried to hold her hand or hug her, she would move out of reach or distract him by tugging at his belt and stroking his balls through his jeans.

Nor did she enjoy the sort of languorous kissing sessions that he and Angela used to pass hours in. Kissing Kirsty was a thrusting and brief affair, all tongues and almost bruised lips.

Sure, he rarely passed a minute in Kirsty’s company without a hard-on, and what guy wouldn’t like that amount of attention on his groin, but her intensity wore him out and he began to worry where it was all going to end. He worried that he had no free will. He was Kirsty’s plaything, a penis on a stick, she once called him, laughing at his slight frame. He was simply snared within the glare of Kirsty’s need and no matter how his concerns rumbled in his mind, he could no more walk away from her than he could willingly donate both kidneys.

Kenny phones me back. Gives me a number to call. Says he’s thinking about opening up an office as a private investigator. I tell him to turn off the TV and go rob some more rich people.

I dial the number.

‘Hello?’ The voice sounds young and female. And scared.

‘I’m told you can get me some information I need,’ I say.

‘God. If anyone finds out about this I am pure fucked, mister.’

‘No one will find out, sweetheart,’ I say in my best soothing tones. ‘Just think about it as a public service. One that could save a child’s life.’

‘Right. Okay. That’s got to be a good thing, eh? Me, pure saving a wean?’

‘Where can we meet?’

‘You know the McDonald’s at Govan? Be there at twelve-thirty. Mine’s a Big Mac.’ She hung up.

I retrieve my car from the car park and jump on to the M8 and head towards Govan. I take the exit at Ibrox and with the football stadium behind me, I drive towards the Southern General and from there head for McDonald’s and its car park. The traffic is minimal at this time of day so I arrive a good fifteen minutes early.

Standing at the service point I think long and hard about what I’m going to have. I’ve never really been a fan of these fast food chains. I prefer good old-fashioned grease shops with Italian names above the door, where if you don’t eat deep-fried you leave hungry.

There is a so-called healthy option. A salad that looks wonderful on the poster, but pathetic in its little perspex box. A member of staff in his sub-Americana uniform sidles up to the till-point. He raises his eyebrows by way of offering me his undivided attention. It’s a wonder the movement doesn’t set off an explosion of pus on his forehead. It’s less like he suffers from acne, more like he has the plague.

I open my mouth to speak. Then close it. I’ve been really careful so far today. Not eaten anything fattening. Why did that woman have to want to meet here? I could just have a coffee. I open my mouth again. And close it. My stomach does a fair impression of a rottweiler warning off a burglar. I need more than a coffee. And more than that sorry-looking salad.

‘Can I help you, mister? Before the prices go up?’

I smile. ‘If you want to keep your job, mate, let the customers do the funnies. A Big Mac meal, please.’

‘Want to go Large?’

‘Not really, but is that not what happens anyway when you eat in places like this?’

‘It’s murder on the complexion as well.’ He presses a few buttons on his screen, his mouth half-forming a smile.

With my food on a tray, I choose a seat in the far corner of the shop, where I can see everyone who comes in. The fries drop straight into my stomach, I barely chew on them I am so hungry. The burger takes a little longer. I wash it down with some fizz.

With a thought aimed in the direction of my abdomen I judge the status of my stomach. Still hungry. Should I have one of those cardboard apple turnover things and a coffee?

The door opens. A couple walk in. They’ll both be going “Large” I expect. They are a matching pair. Same height, same shape and wearing pretty much the same clothes; navy sweatshirts and sweatpants. I can’t imagine them doing much sweating, unless it’s while running to catch the ice cream van. It just occurs to me that when both sexes beef up to that extent their body shape ends up matching. Fat softens the musculature and the curves into a kind of middle sex. The only way I can recognise the male is with the hairstyles. His head is shaven, she has a ponytail.

The door opens again and a young woman walks in. She’s holding her head high like it is costing her a month’s wages in effort. She looks round the room and sees me.

‘You started without me,’ she looks at the remains of my meal. A smile is shoe-horned into her expression.

‘Sorry. That was rude,’ I say. ‘I was unsure what the etiquette might be.’

‘Eat first. Ask questions later.’ Her hair is out-of-abottle-blond and the skin on her face sports an out-of-the-can-tan. Under her black raincoat I can make out a hospital type uniform. She looks as if she is in her early twenties. She has the pinched features of poverty, her eyes sunken and dark. She sits and puts a small leather bag on the table.

‘If you want a photo, mate, I can arrange it.’ Whatever is worrying her is putting an aggressive tone in her voice.

‘Big Mac?’ Without waiting for her to answer I walk up to the till. My young friend is still serving. The eyebrows go up and I want to duck for cover, but no explosion ensues. I ask for the same again and pause.

‘Anything else for you, sir?’

‘Aye, okay. A chocolate muffin and a coffee.’

The girl and I eat in silence. I finish first, even if the muffin gets more chewing action than the first part of my meal.

‘So who’s the kid that I’m helping?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jasmine.’

‘Ok, Jasmine. You work in the hospital in an admin capacity I am told.’

She nods and chews. While she eats her feet are drumming on the floor. She’s wired.

‘I need to find someone. A nurse someone.’

‘There are official ways to do that, mister,’ she says and then sucks on her straw.

‘Tried that. Got nowhere.’

She measures me with a look. ‘Mebbe that’s ’cos there’s nothing for you to get.’

Over Jasmine’s head I can see a man is walking away from the counter towards the door. Something about him is familiar. Where had I seen that face before?

‘Hello?’ says Jasmine. ‘You alright?’

‘Yeah,’ I answer as I watch the man leave the store and walk to the car park. Something about him.

‘Sure? ’Cos you look spooked mate.’

I shiver. Then notice she hasn’t touched her fries. I steal one. ‘Anyway back to you. I have a hunch.’ I tell her what I want. She slumps back in her chair.

‘But that’s going to take me ages.’

‘We don’t have ages. A child’s life is at stake.’

‘Let me get this straight. You want me to search all the hospitals in the Glasgow area for a member of staff with a famous name that just might include the first name Lucy?’

‘You got it.’

‘C’mon tae fuck, man. Do you know how many people work for the NHS?’ She leans forward into my space.

‘Just what does Kenny have on you?’ I stay where I am and ask.

She sits back again, a hole punched in her street tough demeanour. She looks out of the window. Fear tightens her features. Inwardly I cringe. I don’t want to play a part in someone else’s misery. This is not what I had in mind when I asked for Kenny’s help. I should have thought it through some more before giving him the call. God only knows how deep the shit is this girl is in. And you’ve then got to wonder, how much is Kenny stirring the pot?

‘When do you want it?’ she sounds defeated and her street mask has slipped making her look young enough to have just recently left school.

‘As soon as.’ I answer while my conscience screams vile names at me.

Back at the office Daryl and Alessandra are at their desks. Time for a mingle at the coffee machine I think. I aim a wink in their direction and press the button for a cappuccino served in a tan, plastic cup. It is released into my hands and the froth is as thin as saliva. I swear, every time the machine issues one a groan sounds from the world’s Italian population.

Alessandra joins me. ‘I’m your help for the day. Gimme a mocca with a chocolate swizzle stick, please.’

‘A white coffee then?’

‘As long as it’s warm and wet.’

I pause.

‘See how I’m holding my tongue?’

‘Impressive.’ She takes a sip and judging by her expression she’s mentally giving the drink a score. Settles for, ‘better than nothing’.

We’re just two colleagues shooting the breeze, with a body stance that says, look how relaxed and friendly we are and not talking about anything suspicious. I scan the room. Peters is in his office, face locked on his computer screen. His hand darts to the side of his keyboard and plucks a brown sandwich from a pocket of tinfoil. He looks at it as if it is covered in shit and throws it back into the foil.

‘What’s eating his gusset?’ I ask and debate whether or not to liberate the sandwich.