A Taste for Malice (17 page)

‘Alessandra phoned me. She’s worried about you.’ I can hear Maggie huffing as she keeps up.

‘So you thought you’d come and check up on me like a good fucking Samaritan.’

We’re at the door to my flat. I leave it open for the return trip and Maggie skips in ahead of me. She walks to the kitchen door, turns and pulls the bag from me and sets it on the floor.

‘Ray,’ her face is turned up to mine. I expect to see sympathy and I prepare to growl. Instead her eyebrows are raised, her mouth shaped into the suggestion of a smile. A smile that hints at understanding. Her face is infused with genuine warmth and concern.

‘Ray,’ she says again, her hand on my arm. I move to her left, an action that brings us closer together. I sag as the weight of fury leaves me.

‘C’mere,’ she holds her arms out and I lean into her. Her heat calms me further. My nose is filled with the scent of her hair, as if a breeze had brought with it the gift of flowers. I notice the press of her breasts against my stomach and the weight of her against my thighs. I am hard now and shift away from her. She moves and fills the space.

‘Ray …’ her face turns up to mine, her lips parted with need.

‘Is the food okay?’ asked Moira before they’d even brought the first spoonful to their mouths. It was Sunday dinner at Moira’s house. In her own environment she was a different woman. She did less snorting, was a little more open in how she talked to Jim and she didn’t seem to be trying so hard to be liked. Whatever synergy the two women shared, it was of mutual benefit. So who was he to sneer? As long as his secret was secure they could do whatever they wanted.

It was safe, wasn’t it?

If Moira had any knowledge of their prior situation she was keeping quiet. So, perhaps Jim could assume she knew nothing. In any case she was a great help to him and Angela, particularly now he was back at work. In fact, he was beginning to wonder what he would do without her.

The menu was a watery soup à la Weight Watchers, followed by melon, followed by grilled chicken breasts with vegetables, followed by a fruit salad. All very healthy.

The house itself was a bog-standard three bedroomed, newly built, detached villa. The rooms were all small, but furnished with care. Every available surface had a vase, or an ornament, or a photograph on it. Moira must really dote on Erskine, Jim thought. Every single photograph contained him, and only him. No mum, dad or other relatives, just Erskine.

The talk ranged from their respective sons, to soft furnishings to the price of local houses and back again to their sons. Now and again Jim joined the boys in the garden just to get the merest whiff of testosterone — they had finished their dinner of tomato soup and chicken nuggets in record time — then he would go back into the house.

‘We’re going to have a girly day tomorrow.’ Angela clutched her ever-present purple notebook to her chest when Jim sat down with them for coffee.

‘Oh,’ he politely requested more information; delighted he would be nowhere near.

‘Yes. We’re going to have our nails done. And our hair. Moira squealed with excitement.

Just then Ben and Erskine came running in. ‘Moira, Moira. Moira,’ chanted Erskine, ‘Ben called me a bad name. He said I was stupid,’ Erskine’s face had almost folded in on itself with anger at Ben. Then it occured to Jim that he had just called his mum by her first name.

‘He’s going through a wee phase,’ Moira smiled and shrugged. ‘Refuses to call me anything but Moira.’ We all share a smile at the idiosyncrasies of children.

‘Ben,’ Jim spoke in a warning tone. ‘What do you say to Erskine?’

Ben pouted at his father. Looked at Erskine. Then he looked back at Jim.

‘Sorry, Erskine,’ offered Ben. He walked over to the other boy and pulled him into a quick hug. ‘You’re only a little bit stupid.’

Erskine paused, weighing this up and then placing his hand on Ben’s back he returned the hug. Then he tugged at Ben’s hand.

‘C’mon and see my new dinosaur. It’s an Allosaurus.’

Ben’s eyes widened and both boys issued a long, ‘Oooooo’ then charged from the room and towards the stairs.

‘That’ll be a lovely day out for you, sweetheart.’ Jim brought the conversation back to Angela and her imminent trip while admiring how children can at times move past insults so quickly.

‘I know. We’re going to a trendy new place,’ Angela opened her book and flicked over a couple of pages. ‘Palmer-Douglas it’s called. Everyone’s talking about it. Apparently they’re really good.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Moira. ‘It’s about time I had a new me.’

Angela was in the kitchen; rested after an hour’s nap, but despite the late spring heat she was warming her hands on a full mug of coffee. Something about her shape as she hunched over the table made Jim pause.

‘You okay, babe?’ he asked.

She looked at him and sucked on her top lip before speaking. ‘Am I difficult to live with?’ She looked like tears were close.

‘No, honey. Not really.’ Jim groaned inwardly as the last two words came out of his mouth, too late for an edit.

‘Not really? What does that mean?’ Tears were now giving way to irritation.

‘It means that yes, you are difficult at times,’ he maintained an easy tone. ‘But no, you are not too difficult to live with.’

Then Angela burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands. Something resembling words fought their way through the wall of her hands.

Jim walked over to her and put his arms around her.

‘You have been such a help, Jim. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Don’t know what I would
do
without you. Please don’t take any notice of what I say. I just get so frustrated at not remembering stuff that I lash out. I know it’s not fair on you. I just can’t help myself.’ Then she added a list of her faults; it sounded like a litany of self-hate.

‘I’m a crap mother. A shit wife. I have no friends but Moira, and another woman called Kirsty who never gets in touch. What is it about me? Why am I such a failure at everything?’

‘Hey, hey, hey.’ Jim hunkered down so that he was at eye level with her. ‘You are not a shit wife and you are certainly not a crap mother. Ben loves you to bits. He adores you. And it’s only natural that when you move away from your hometown and devote your life to your child that you lose touch with people. Right?’

Angela nodded, completely malleable now as if pleased to have someone else do her thinking for her.

‘In any case,’ Jim said, ‘Moira is enough of a friend to be the equivalent of ten. Not sure what we’d do without her.’ The words were sincere when they formed in his mind and intended as reassurance. But once given sound they soured like yoghurt left to sit too long in the sun.

As a man, what more can you ask for than to go to sleep with a smile, make like a catatonic for eight hours and wake up in the morning with a hard-on? Maggie is on her side facing away from me. I press against her, feeling the sweet ache as my penis touches the swell of her buttock. A groan escapes from my mouth. Maggie turns her head to face me.

‘Can you not hear my belly growling? People in the next flat are about to call the RSPCA for fear there’s an animal in here getting mistreated.’

I grind against her. ‘There is. Me.’

She turns on her side, her mouth forming a pout, reaches down and sticks a finger in my stomach.

‘I need food.’

‘OK,’ I jump out of bed, pull on a pair of jeans that were lying in a heap on the floor, just for such an occasion, rummage in a drawer for a T-shirt, slip on a pair of shoes and find my wallet in yesterday’s trousers in another pile of clothes.

‘Right. I’m going commando for breakfast,’ I swivel my hips.

‘Sticky commando,’ says Maggie as she sits up in bed. I notice she pulls the quilt with her and holds it in front of her breasts.

‘I’ll shower when I get back.’ I lean forward and aim to give her a kiss. Her forehead is the only place I can reach.

The corner shop is empty save for me and the shopkeeper, Amir. He is in his mid-fifties and sports a thatch of thick white hair. Whenever his wife is working in the shop with him, he loves to tell his customers how his hair was as black as a crow’s wing until he met her.

‘Having a wee lie-in, Mr McBain,’ he asks, his accent as broad Scots as mine.

‘There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes.’

He raises his eyebrows in that bored expression he is so fond of. I’m sure he stands in front of a mirror and practises. The only hint that he is in fact quite happy with his lot is the glint in his eyes that he is unable to disguise. ‘What morsels can I tempt you with this morning?’ He moves his left hand, palm up, in a grand sweeping gesture, as if his shop were filled with the finest goods the world would ever see.

‘I have a need for square sausage, Amir. Is there any other country in the world that flattens its sausage meat into a square shape, do you think?’ I’m feeling expansive this morning. Wonder why?

‘Dunno,’ he shrugs. ‘We Scots have some strange culinary habits, mate. How many slices of such sausage will satisfy your appetites this morning?’

‘Four. And four rolls as well, please Amir.’

‘So, Mr McBain is not breakfasting alone this fine morning?’ His doleful expression lightens at the prospect of some gossip.

I struggle to keep the grin from my face. ‘Should I fill out a wee postcard and stick it in your window?’

‘Ah,’ he clutches his hands before his heart. ‘Affairs of the heart should stay between a man and his lover. Don’t sully my windows with tales of fornication.’ He pauses. ‘Anybody I might know?’

‘Fornication? Who is talking about fornication in my shop?’ A small round woman enters from behind a beaded curtain at the rear of the shop. Nisha is Amir’s wife and her voice is still filled with the mountains of Pakistan, despite over forty years in this country.

‘My shop, dear,’ says Amir. ‘And it’s Mr McBain from number 79. He’s here to buy rolls for his breakfast.’ His tone and the way he tilts his head suggests there is more than just food involved.

Nisha’s face transforms with a smile.

‘I remember the first flush of romance, Mr McBain.’ She looks over my shoulder, her eyes fixed on a spot that must be so wonderful I feel forced to turn and see what is in her line of vision. ‘Didn’t last long.’ She narrows her eyes at Amir. Then her face softens as she turns back to me. ‘Have you known this lady long? Is she very beautiful?’

This middle-aged couple are now standing side by side, like matching bookends, wearing identical smiles and waiting to hear of my romance. The only difference is while Nisha has her hands clasped in front of her heart, Amir is holding a plastic bag containing my breakfast.

‘She’s gorgeous. I’ve known her for about a year and can I have my food please?’

‘Sure, sure.’ Amir is all business now. He names the price, I pull out my wallet and hand over a note. While Amir counts out the coins of my change he fixes me with a look.

‘Savour this moment, Mr McBain. The world turns, people grow old ...’ His eyes shift to the side. ‘And eat too much chocolate.’ He winks at me.

‘Enjoy your breakfast, Mr McBain,’ says Nisha. ‘And my advice is not to listen to bitter men who grow old before their time.’ Her smile is as sweet as sugared almonds.

Walking back to the flat I slow my pace as I think about last night. What do Maggie and I mean to each other? I’ve always suspected her feelings for me were stronger than mine. Could I love her back? My head was too full of Theresa, and running away from my colleagues to find a serial killer before I was locked up. But that was then. And now?

An image of her smiling at me pops into my head. I feel my face shape itself into a smile of response. One thing is for sure, she makes me feel good. Is that enough? After spending a night with the woman I love, I should be dancing along this street, throwing my joy into the world. Instead I’m wondering whether I could love her or not.

She is a wonderful woman. I enjoy her company. She makes me laugh. The sex last night was better than good. Most couples would view all of these things as mandatory.

Yes.

Me and Maggie. Maggie and me. It could work.

I ignore the wee voice that intones;
you’re kidding yourself, McBain.

Back in the flat, Maggie is all business. She has dressed and showered and is standing waiting with her hand out for whatever food I am carrying.

We each avoid the other’s eyes.

‘Have a shower, Ray and I’ll prepare the breakfast.’

Clean and dressed, the smell of cooked meat invites me through to the kitchen. The table is set with mugs of steaming tea and a plate piled with breakfast. A voice drones out from the small TV set that sits on top of the fridge. It’s the Scottish news. There’s been a shooting in the east of the city. Two men approached a parked car and shot the occupant. He died at the scene. The speculation is that it is linked to the dead accountant.

For once it’s none of my concern, I pick up a roll and sausage and take a bite. Thinking one of us should speak, I say, ‘Just realised how hungry I am.’

Maggie’s eyes are on the screen.

The next news story has me paying attention however. A test case had gone before the courts to decide whether the former residents of orphanages run by nuns of the same religious order as had looked after me were due for some compensation. Over four hundred and fifty people had complained about abuse at the hands of these nuns between the years 1961 and 1977 and wanted compensation for the treatment they received. The reporter went on to say that the judges had rejected the three test cases with the view that their actions became time-barred past 1990.

It’s like getting good news and bad news all at the same time. Firstly, I could have actually sued for damages. I could have gone to the courts and seen that the women who treated me in such a way, under the cloak of religion, were punished. Then I learn it’s too late. Some judges have decided that there is a time limit on the effects of abuse. Put the clock on it for twenty-one years and it appears the impact of your treatment will have lessened sufficiently for you to believe that it never really happened.