Hell To Pay (5 page)

Chapter 10

I was half between sleep and the restlessness you get when you're trying to wake yourself up because you're in the grips of a nightmare, when there's a thunderous knock at the door. Pulling the pillow over my face, I try to drown it out.

But, whoever's there is not giving up. More pounding followed by a voice booming down the short hall.  

"Nancy, its DI Waddell. I need to speak to you."

Damn, what does he want?

Hauling myself out of bed, I shove my toes into my slippers and stomp down the hall. I don't know how he managed to find me here - now I'll have to move.

When I open the door, bleary eyed and with my blood pressure rising, demanding to know why he's hammering on my door at 7am, Waddell's standing there in his trench coat, his gangly deputy by his side. The guy reminds me of an emu: all legs.

"Nancy, can we come in?"

If I say, “no” he'll only come back, so I nod and step aside.

I lead them through into what passes for a living room - there's only enough room for a two-seater couch and a stool - and indicate that they can have the couch.

"If this is about my parents' murders, I haven't remembered anything else and to be honest, I think it's a bit early for a visit."

Waddell's gaze flickers between me and my new home as though he can't bear to look at me for any length of time. Worry's gnawing its way into my gut.

He plants himself down on the couch, as his sidekick stands there casting a shadow.

"You'd better sit down, Nancy."

Something in his voice makes me do what I'm told, for once, and I sit on the stool.

He leans forward and puts his hands on his knees.

“I'm sorry, but Shug’s dead.”

"What?"

That can't be right. I saw him yesterday. He's got it wrong.

"There's been some mistake."

I'm adamant. There's no way this is true.

DI Waddell reaches over and pats my hand. His face is etched with the same concern he had when he first visited me in hospital. He showed me more concern than my aunt did.

"I'm sorry, Nancy, but it's true. We've been to the prison. Your brother was stabbed to death by his cellmate. He's confessed to the crime. Not that he could deny it: his fingerprints were all over the knife."

A hand's gripping my heart, trying to squeeze the life out of it.

"No."

I get one word out before the tears fall. How much more am I meant to take?

"It was an argument over cigarettes. He said Shug promised him his, but reneged on the deal. These things happen in prison. People kill for reasons that we on the outside might consider trivial."

The Detective Inspector keeps on talking, but its all white noise. Shug's dead. 

The last thing Waddell says before he leaves is that a family liaison officer will be coming to see me to offer me some support. I'll be out when they call. I'm already planning to move, because if the police can find me, so can McNab.

Chapter 11

It was a lovely spot, a quiet place. Situated on one of the highest spots in Glasgow, the cemetery was a walled oasis away from the bustle of the city and was lined with trees and flowers. Wild rabbits played tag along the stones.

Finding the grave, I kneel down and place the bouquet of wild flowers in the vase. Mum preferred wild flowers to “shop bought ones.”

"I'm sorry. I tried, I really tried."

The words spill out as I sink to my knees, hating myself for breaking my promise not to cry as acid tears sting my eyes. A crow sitting on a nearby gravestone eyes me with its cold, beady eyes.

My body's shaking as I haul myself to my feet, not caring that my tights are torn and it's so cold the draught's going up my leg. There are two names on the gravestone, but soon they'll be joined by a third - Shug. Only it won't say Shug, it'll say Hugh.

He’s always hated his name, but it's the one our parents gave him, so he's stuck with it now. For eternity.

Chapter 12

As I lie back on the couch, I tense up, terrified of letting go. Dr. Bowen has already explained to me that hypnosis is simply a state of deep relaxation and not mind control. She explained that afterwards I'd remember everything I said. But, I’m scared about not being in control. I need to be in control because I'm already unraveling and I’m worried I’ll end up back in Parkview Hospital.

I ask her a question. If she gives me the wrong answer, I’m getting out of here.

"But will it help me remember?"

Despite a multitude of questions, she’s unflustered.

"There are no guarantees, but I’ve helped patients remember things before. The police have called me in on a few criminal cases."

She watches me with almond eyes that seem to stare right into my soul.

"If you do remember anything helpful about your attackers, you will go to the police?"

Go to the police? Why would I do that? This is my chance to get revenge.

"Yes," I lie.

Lying is starting to come as easily to me these days as violent thoughts.

“Very well.” She leans back in her chair. “Shall we begin?”

I tell her I'm ready, but the truth is inside I'm ignoring the voice in my head telling me to leave, because no good can come of this. And, I’m scared at the thought of reliving what happened even although Dr. Bowen assures me that I won’t feel the same fear and she can “bring me back” at any time…

"What’s happening to you, Nancy?"

"They’re laughing as they do disgusting things to me…things that hurt…I’m begging them to stop, trying to make eye contact, because they’ve gagged me."

Dr. Bowen’s soothing voice cuts in. "You’re safe, Nancy. No one can hurt you now. You’re in my office, lying on my couch. We can stop at any time. Do you want to stop, Nancy?"

The tightness in my chest eases. "No," I say, my voice a long way off.

"Move on Nancy, to a time when those men have stopped hurting you. Tell me what’s happening now. What can you see? What can you hear?" 

"I’m dying. The tall one stabbed me, a few times. They felt like punches, but I looked down and saw the knife. The men are talking as though I’m not even there. They know I’m dying…"

"Nancy, it’s okay. You didn’t die. You survived and now you’re safe, in this room with me. Take a few deep breaths. Relax."

I do as she says and the tension in my body eases.

"Can you see their faces?"

"No, they're wearing masks. Ski masks.'

"Nancy, listen to those voices. How do they sound? What are they saying?"

"They’re laughing and joking about the night they'd planned. They’re talking about getting Pete a canary."

"Have they taken off their masks, Nancy?"

"I don’t know. I can’t see. They’ve got their backs to me. They’re leaving."

"What’s happening now, Nancy? What do you see?"

"My phone. It’s under the table. The phone fell. I need to reach it, but I’m scared. They might see me. If they do…"

A wail erupts from deep inside me.

Dr. Bowen’s calm voice drifts through. "But, they don’t see you, Nancy because you survived. You're here, in this room with me and you're safe."

Later, as I make my way back to my car, flurries of tears sting my eyes. All of my hopes were pinned on me remembering something, anything that could help me track down those monsters. But the one thing I did remember was utterly useless.

We lived in a city of Petes and loads of folk had canaries. My one chance of remembering something that would lead me to those men and I'd come up with nothing of any use.

What did I do now?

Chapter 13

"We'll get Pete a canary."

When Dr. Bowen put me under, I'd heard one of them say that. It was as clear as a bell. But, what good was remembering something as trivial as that? How would that help me track them down?

After the hypnotherapist session, my head felt as if it's been stomped on and last night, I hadn't slept. Instead, I'd paced up and down, chattering away to myself like one of the demented patients in the psychiatric hospital before they managed to get the right dose for their meds. I kept saying the same phrase aloud, repeating it like a mantra, hoping for a moment of blinding insight into how I could use that snatch of conversation to find either man.

Nothing came floating to the surface in the quagmire of my mind. Whatever hope I'd had before the hypnotherapy session had been snuffed out.

Pinning a large piece of paper to the wall, I'd brainstormed. At the top of the paper, I’d written 'canary,' then I’d jotted down anything I associated with the word. Nothing was too silly or obscure.

The first thing that sprung to mind, were pet stores and canary breeders. There were dozens of pet shops in the city, but I could hardly go into every single one or phone up, and say, "Hey, did anybody come in and buy a canary for someone called Pete? Who is this Pete? Oh, he could be their son or just a pal, maybe a relative. I dunno. I'm just some nosey madwoman asking about a man and a bird."

You don't go around asking those types of questions in this city, unless you want strange looks and people circling their fingers around their ears.

Then I thought of canary yellow, the color and that didn't sound right, unless they were doing some decorating and had extremely bad taste. The only thing that looks good yellow is Tweetie Pie and a duck.

It was when I'd ripped the pieces of the paper off the wall, rolling them into a ball to make it easier to toss them into the trash, that something occurred to me. Maybe they weren't talking about getting Pete a canary. Maybe they said they were meeting him “at” the canary.

Considering my state of mind, it was highly plausible that I could have misheard. When you're bleeding out onto the floor it tends to affect your concentration.

One word or a word taken out of context could change the whole meaning.

Of course, I knew it was a long shot, but by this time, I was desperate for sleep and grabbing at runaway balloons like a child in a funfair who doesn't want to go home.

Going online, I typed 'canary' and 'Glasgow' into the search engine. The predictive text kept on trying to change it to cannery or to direct me to pet stores. Nothing comes up so I widened the search to all over Scotland. No joy; there was no such place as the Canary.

Thinking about the name and the context it was used, I decided that it had to be a bar, club or cafe. Where else would two Glasgow thugs go? Somehow, I couldn't see them in a tearoom, sipping tea in fine china and eating dainty scones and cucumber sandwiches with a selection of homemade preserves.

So, I did a narrower search using the word bar, club and cafe after canary and came up with nada, even when I extended the search across the whole of the country and put in different towns and cities. It was a long shot, but I also tried Spain, Cyprus and Portugal because there are so many Scots ex-pats out there. Still no luck.

It was a strange name for any establishment, so it occurred to me that it might be a nickname, probably for a bar. There was one bar in Glasgow I knew of that was better known by his nickname
The Budgie
. It would have been a shoo in if they'd talked about meeting there, but that would have been too jammy and one thing I hadn't been in a long while was lucky.

Looking up 'bar/pub nicknames', I came across an article someone had penned for a magazine, about their trip around every boozer in the city.  

Bingo.

That's how I came to be standing outside an ugly stone building, as the wind whipped at my ankles, wearing a Uma Thurman
Pulp Fiction
wig and Goth-style make up, because there must be no chance of me being recognized; if this is the right place. If its not, I don't know what I'll do because I'm all out of straws.

At some point, someone must have tried to give the building a facelift by painting the outside canary yellow. The name above the door might have said
The Balloch Arms
, but I knew that locals called it “The Canary.”

As bars in the less fashionable parts of the city went, the interior wasn't too bad. It was the kind of place you could wander into straight from work, with your clothes caked in mud and brick dust and not worry about being turned away at the door or being hit with a “no trainers” ban to keep out the riffraff. Inside, it was all oak and red velvet fabric, and although it had seen better days (there were black and white pictures of two well-known celebrities from a decade ago, on the wall) it was clean. Displayed on the oak paneling wall were classic pictures of various movie stars: I spot Monroe, Bogart, Bacall, Sinatra and Garbo.

The presence of those powerful women empowers me. None of them took any shit from anyone and that's my mantra from now on.

There are a handful of people in the bar, because it's half past two on a weekday. There's no sign of my prey. I'm relieved about that. What would I do if came across one or both of them? I honestly don't know.  

"Can I help you?"

A pleasant looking girl with rosy cheeks and a cheery voice asks what I want to drink. Right now, I'm so jittery at the thought that the men who attacked me could have stood where I'm standing, I could do with a right bucket load. Instead, I tell her I'm looking for bar work and the girl nods in the direction of the bear of a man who's deep in conversation with a punter in a fluorescent jacket at the end of the bar.

"That's the owner, Sam. You can ask him."

Sam has a bushy biker's beard, a bald head and a concern for me that I find quite touching.

"Why do you want to work here, love? You seem like a nice girl and it can get kind of rough."

"Who says I'm a nice girl?"

Cue a throaty chuckle from him and a beery snort from his pal in the fluorescent jacket.

These days, I'm no wallflower, so I buoy him along.

"When can I start?"

Sam puts his bottom lip over the top one and I giggle; it makes him look like a child.

"Aw, I don't know, hen. There are rotas to be consulted.” He makes a big play of racking his brains. Then he winks at me. “I take it you have experience?"

"Aye," I nod. “I used to work in the Aussie bar in town."

The chain of bars went bust a few months ago, so he won't be able to check. And, it’s not a complete lie. I have worked in a bar before, but it was when I was a student and I hope I haven't lost the knack.

"You can start tomorrow night. What did you say your name was again?"

"Amy."

I'd read once that If you wanted to tell a believable lie, it should be close to the truth and Amy's my middle name.

"See you tomorrow night, then Amy."

With a wee wave, I'm out of there, one step closer to avenging myself and my parents.

That is if this is the right place.