Hell To Pay (6 page)

Chapter 14

Before my first shift, I was as twitchy as a shoeaholic in Carrie Bradshaw’s closet. I had to go to the toilet half a dozen times before I was ready to leave. My stomach's in knots as though someone's hand’s inside, gripping my intestines and twisting them.

Before I’d mustered the courage to move, I'd checked my appearance one final time. Gone was Nancy Kerr, replaced by the Goth queen. Even I'd have trouble recognizing me. Maybe I had a career in acting or as a bar slut who tried to ensnare married men in a honey trap.

My first shift passed without much happening. There was no sign of either man and I trudged home feeling as if I'd taken a wrong turning on the highway to revenge. What was I thinking of getting a job there on such flimsy info? If they had met here once didn’t mean they’d meet here again.

I was no longer teetering on the edge of madness; I was having my mail delivered there. The one thing I had to go on could be a dead end. 

On my next shift, Rosalie, who I'd met when I'd first come into the bar, was there. We chatted away all night about this and that and had a right laugh. For the first time in ages, I was hooting with laughter and at one point I almost forgot why I was there, especially when Rosalie started telling me about the regulars and some of the weird things they got up to, like the guy she once caught urinating in the ice bucket. She also told me about the college course she was doing that she hoped would help her get a job as a legal secretary.

On the few occasions she asked about me about myself, fib after fib tripped off my lips as I invented a new life for myself.

I feel guilty for lying to her, because she's a nice girl and when she laughs the apples in her cheeks get even redder. With the bouncy curls in her hair she reminds me of Frieda from the
Peanuts
cartoon strips.

On Saturday night, I was at the other end of the bar serving Old Joe who was regaling me with his life story that so far had involved thieving bookies, knobbled horses and moaning women, when I heard a voice that made my arm shake and I almost dropped the drink I was pouring at the time.

The last time I heard that voice I was dying.

Chapter 15

"Hey, Paul, how are you doing, pal?"

Looking down the bar, I see Sam chatting to a fat man in a leather bomber jacket and oil slick hair. After one drink, he gets a call on his mobile phone and leaves.

As soon as I got the opportunity, I ask Sam who he was.

He tapped his nose. "It's best not to ask too many questions, hen."

I take a telling and don't ask him again. But, I knew who he was all right: the fat man, one of my attackers. Now I had him I wasn't letting him go.

At the end of my shift I offer Rosalie, a lift back to her place. It's not the best of areas she lives in, so she accepts. 

On the way, we chat about this and that until Rosalie lowers her voice and says, "You were asking about one of our regulars."

I try to sound disinterested. "Was I?"

She raises her chin and her eyes home in on mine. "Out of interest, why were you asking?"

I’m not sure if she’s being nosey or if it was more than that. These days I’m suspicious of everybody; even kids working their way through college.

"Just curious," I say, keeping my tone light. "If I'm going to be working here I want to get to know the regulars. Get some good tips."

A few minutes pass as she eyed me with interest.

"Oh. Just so you know, that was Paul Conlan and he's not the kind of man you want to know."

It’s my turn to say, "Oh," and look surprised. "Why's that, then?"

Rosalie leans over towards the driver's seat.

"I've heard people say that they've seen his girlfriend Alison with bruises and they reckon Paul beats her."

Now the floodgates are open, the words come tumbling out. Something in me tightens, but I try to hold back my rage as she tells me how Alison was at school when she met Conlan and got pregnant by him. She never got to go to college. He'd crushed that dream, saying women should stay at home with their kids whilst the men went out to work.

Rosalie was in full flow now. "He won't even let her go anywhere without him. That's what I heard. And, Morag, who's a neighbor of hers, comes into the bar all the time and she says that there are plenty of times that she goes to pick up her kids from school and Alison's not there. Usually because Paul's beaten her black and blue and she can't show her face. Her mum Pauline picks up her little boy then, or she asks Morag to do it. It's such a shame. She's really nice Alison and she's not much older than me."

"That's terrible," I say, tutting at all the right bits, all the time thinking that he was much worse than she'd ever know.

Rosalie's animated now. "That's not all. He gets some cheap spirits and cigarettes for Sam from knocked off deliveries to the supermarkets. Bargain prices."

That surprises me and it shows.

A smile brings out the roses out in Rosalie's cheeks. "Aye, Sam's nice. But even he can't say no to cheap booze."

"Listen, Rosalie," I say, as she climbs out the car," Paul whatshisname doesn't look like someone who's top of the heap. Does he work for someone?"

There's alarm in her pretty face.

I put on a relaxed air. "Just so I don't put my foot in it. Say something daft.'”

She shakes her head. 'I don't know."

She gives me a quick wave as she opens the gate.

As I watch her go, I curse myself. Have I said too much?

There was no longer a bounce in Rosalie's step as she hurried up the steps to her apartment.

She did know who Fat Paul works for, so why would she say she didn't?

Chapter 16

Four weeks earlier…

Alison couldn’t bear to look at herself in the mirror. She hated her pale face and how she always managed to look ill even when she'd spent ages putting on her make up. There were grey bags under her eyes and fine lines were starting to form under her eyes. Paul had gleefully pointed them out to her one night when he’d grabbed her face and pinched the skin so hard it hurt and she'd been left with a red mark.

When she’d burst into tears and told him not to say that, he’d pulled her backwards by her hair and smashed her head off the wall. Pain screamed through her brain, but the loss of consciousness she longed for didn't come.

As she lay there dazed, he hissed that she was a whore and unzipped his trousers. Then he ordered her to “do the one thing you're good at.”

She’d thought that she was going to choke, but she was too scared to struggle. It was always worse when she struggled.

Once he’d finished, she’d collapsed onto the bedroom floor, hugging herself and silently sobbing because the sound of her crying made him mad and he'd belt her again. One day, he would go too far and kill her; she knew that, but she couldn't leave him. There were times when death didn't seem so bad, but then she'd think of Ryan. What would happen to him if she were no longer around? Her mum couldn't take him because her dad wouldn't let her. He hated children and had all but disowned her when she'd moved in with Paul.

Once Paul was snoring drunkenly away on the bed, she’d crept into the living room to check on her son. He was still giggling away at his cartoons. He was a good boy who knew when to turn the telly up. Sometimes she thought having another baby would change things between her and Paul. At least when she was pregnant he wouldn't hit her. He'd never laid a finger on her when she'd been pregnant with Ryan and he'd been so nice to her, buying her presents and telling her how great she looked.

That all ended when Ryan was born and Paul had badly beaten her - all because he accused her of being too friendly with the man who ran their local newsagents. Even when she'd pointed out that he was only being nice to her and beside he was old enough to be her dad, it hadn't calmed him. This time she'd been forced to go to hospital.

Seeing her injuries, some busybody had called the police. She'd lied and told them she'd been mugged. How else could she explain four broken fingers and two cracked ribs? She knew the police hadn't believed her and they hadn't been very nice. When they thought they were out of earshot, she'd heard one of them say she was “a stupid cow for wasting time” for not pressing charges.

This time her injuries weren't as bad. Nothing was broken or cracked. She had a cut lip and bruised cheek, and when she lifted her bra strap there were bloody welts from where he'd grabbed her. There was no way she'd be able to pick up her son from school for a while until her face healed. No amount of make up could cover the damage and she ached all over; even basic movements were a struggle and she knew from experience that it would be much worse tomorrow.

She’d have to guzzle down some vodka and painkillers as she normally did because Paul didn't want her going to doctors. He’d warned her that if he found out she’d gone behind his back he’d break both her legs and her back. Then he’d leave her and take Ryan with him. She never doubted that he meant it.

Four weeks later...

Alison was waving goodbye to Ryan at the school gates when an unfamiliar voice amongst the parents made her jump.

"Aw, there they go."

A woman with long blonde hair and striking green eyes, beamed over at her. 

"Eh?"

She didn’t meet the woman’s gaze; she rarely made eye contact with anyone these days.

"Sorry, just speaking out loud," said the woman, pointing at another wee boy who was in Ryan’s class. “My sister asked me to bring my nephew to school.”

She was going to walk away - Paul always phoned her to make sure she was at home at ten past nine on the dot - when the woman asked if she fancied going for a coffee.

"Sorry, I can't,'" she said, meeting the stranger's gaze for the first time. "I've got so much housework to do. The house is a mess."

The woman frowned. "That's a pity. I've just moved here and I don't know anyone. Oh, well, maybe another time then?”

Now Alison felt guilty. Most of the other mums ignored her and it would be good to make a new friend. Finally, she'd have someone to talk to who wouldn't judge her. She'd heard the other mums talking about in her whispers they thought she couldn't hear. They thought they were so superior. Them and their perfect relationships.

Hope fluttered in her chest; it was a feeling she hadn't had in such a long time and it felt good.

Her tight lips slackened. "Tell you what, why don't you come to my place for one." Then she added, so she wouldn’t come across as too clingy, “if you don’t mind a mess.”

Paul might not like it if he knew, but there was no way he could find out. Not when he wouldn't be back until late. He'd some big job on. She didn't know how he made his money, and she'd stopped asking. Questions tended to make Paul angry and he’s respond with his fists and his feet.

The woman's face brightened. "Oh, I don't want to impose."

Alison beamed. "You wouldn't be. I could do with a chat."

The woman held out her hand. "Smashing. I'm Siobhan, by the way."

"Alison."

She couldn't stop smiling when Siobhan insisted they stop at Greggs the bakers for two chocolate éclairs. Paul didn't let her eat cakes. He said they'd make her fat and that he hated “fat birds,” but there was no way he’d ever find out.

Chapter 17

Alison was an easy person to talk to. When her face was animated, you got a glimpse of the happy girl she must have been before she fell into Paul Conlan's evil clutches. Sure, she was a victim and her chatter was littered with “I don't know what Paul would say about that” and “Paul doesn't like me to,” but I sensed that given the right encouragement (and her scumbag of a boyfriend disappearing) that this nervous flower could blossom into a beautiful sunflower.

Initially, I'd been planning to scare the hell out of Conlan, but after realizing what he'd done to that girl I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. He clearly loved hurting women.

By the end of our girlie chat, I knew her life story. How she'd wanted to be a beauty therapist, but had ended up quitting school when she got pregnant by Conlan. The way she spoke about him you'd have thought he was Brad Pitt, not a fat, sadistic bully.

When she said I could meet them for a drink on Friday night, I agreed.

When she texted me to say Paul wanted to meet me at
The Balloch Arms
I panicked. Sam and Rosalie would be working that night. Would my disguise fool them too?

It had to because this was my best shot at getting Conlan and his psycho mate. If I'd suggested a change of venue I think he'd have smelt a rat.

Chapter 18

Scrutinizing myself in the mirror, I'm sure I've gone for the kind of look that will tempt that sleaze ball. I'm back in my blonde wig and wearing the contact lenses that make my eyes emerald green and I'm wearing a tight white blouse, painted on jeans and black knee-high boots. I’m a male fantasy and I hate myself for it.

Checking I’ve got the Roofies in my handbag (best to be prepared), I head to the bar, heart thundering in my chest as I pray nobody will recognize me.

Spotting Alison is easy. Sitting next to her with a vomit-inducing grin when he spots me, is Conlan.

This is the first time I’ve seen his full face close up and butt ugly, doesn’t even come close to describing him. He has a face that makes you think someone has grafted facial features onto a backside. Forcing myself to smile at him when he looks over hurts my face.

He wraps an arm around Alison that appears affectionate, but he must be holding her too tight because her whole body stiffens. Bastard.

With my heart on loudspeaker, I stroll over. If he recognizes me, I'm screwed. He might even think Alison’s in on it. He already uses her as a punch bag; this time he might kill her. 

The tension in my body eases when I realize his eyes haven’t risen higher than my cleavage that's only held back by the two buttons on my blouse. I fight the temptation to grab a bottle from the table, smash it, and use the jagged edge to sever his gooseneck of a throat.

Instead, I chirp, "You must be Paul."

He grunts something. His eyes are glued to my top that's a size too small, making my breasts resemble ripe apples; I've applied concealer to hide the scars. Slutty, I know, but I have to reel him in. There might not be another chance. Not unless I wait for him in a dark alley with a sawn off shotgun.

Alison’s acting as if she hasn’t noticed him leering at me, but I know she sees what he’s doing and is embarrassed by it. She’s too cowed to say anything.

Sliding in beside the pair of them, I make sure I park myself next to Allison. I feign interest in the tattoos her thug boyfriend proudly displays on his arms, asking him if it'd hurt when he got them done. He must have worn long sleeves that night because I don't remember any tattoos.

Shrugging his bulldog shoulders, he grins over me, exposing his lack of teeth. "Nah. I enjoy pain."

Especially inflicting it on others, you fucking coward.

My admiration hides my contempt as he points out his tattoos, showing me what they are and telling me what they mean. He's happy that I'm asking about them and I give an Oscar-winning performance of a gushing girl who’s impressed by such things. The tightness I noticed in Allison’s jaw when I strolled over has gone. She can relax because for once he likes one of her friends. She's reminds me of a little puppy seeking constant approval from her master; so different to the woman I caught a glimpse of when we chatted. Someone who was funny and smart.

As I watch her turn to him as though she needs his permission to speak, I vow there and then that I’m going to be the best friend Alison has ever had, because I’m going to give Paul Conlan a taste of the pain he enjoys inflicting on others. Hey, maybe I'll even throw in a free tattoo.

For now, I need him to think I'm just another plaything. That's how Neanderthals view women - as mothers or slappers and I know by the way he's ogling me which category he’s put me in.

"I like men with tattoos," I purr, leaning in towards him, wanting to throttle myself for being a total bitch and coming onto someone's boyfriend right in front of them.

"So, how do you know my Alison, then?"

I tell him about our meeting at the school gates.

"So, you've got a kid, then?"

His tone’s a bit aggressive, but I know how to deal with men like him. Taking my time, I dust an imaginary crumb off my top. Feeling his appraising eyes on me, feels like hundreds of cockroaches are scuttling across my bare skin. But, my ploy works. He stops asking me questions and switches from thinking with what passes for a brain to what's in his trousers.

It's when Alison goes to the ladies that the slimy creep makes his move. Sidling up to me, he plants his greasy paw on my knee and says, "So, you like tattoos, then?" Before adding, "You don't happen to have any yourself, darling?"

Biting back a desperate urge to wipe that smarmy grin off his ugly mush with the stiletto heel of my boot, I don't move away.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Do you fancy meeting up, away from here?" He's talking to my boobs.

After a suitable delay, I say, "What about Alison?"

There's not as much as a trace of discomfort when he says;" Alison and me have an understanding."

Yeah, sure you do. You beat the crap out of her because you can only hit women.

I'm keying my number into his mobile phone when Alison reappears. She walks over to us with her head down, something that I'm glad about because it means I don't have to make eye contact; see that look of disappointment and self-loathing in her face.

What kind of friend am I? The girl's been hurt enough without me adding to it.

A plan hatches in my mind. Maybe I can get her to go home and then entice Conlan back to my place?

"Are you okay, Alison?” I say. “You're looking pale?"

A tight wee smile in my direction, gives me her reply. Then she turns to Conlan. "Can we go home now, Paul?"

He ignores her and continues drinking his pint.

"Please."

Her wounded little girl voice makes me want to punch myself. All she is, is a pawn in a game she doesn't even know she's in.

Conlan squints at her as he cracks his knuckles. He has love and hate inked onto them; he’s such a cliché. The seat squeaks as he lifts his fat backside off it.

With a muted goodbye, they leave. But even then I can't relax, because Rosalie who I've managed to avoid all night is looking straight at me.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

My heart thuds against my breastbone. If she realizes who I am, she'll want to know what I'm playing at. She'll tell Sam and there's no way he wouldn't mention this to his pal Conlan.

"No. I don't think so." I speak in a syrupy voice. "I've just got one of those faces, I guess."

Before she can study me, I've swept past her and I'm out the door. She doesn't try to stop me.

I'm hyperventilating as I half walk, half sprint towards my car that I've conveniently parked down a side street. With every step my heart's pounding away. What if she followed me outside? Asks me what the hell I'm doing. Then my cover will be blown.

Relief washes over me as I turn the key in the ignition and realize I've got away with it. What an escape.

But, it's all been worth it. When I get back to my current pad and check my pre-paid cell phone, there's already a message from the pervy creep.

Reining in the nausea that rises in my throat as I read his disgusting text and view the accompanying picture (why do men think we want to see pictures of their penis?) I get into slutty character and the racy texts ping back and forth.

With each text, I'm filled with more self-loathing, but I also feel a sense of achievement. Soon that murdering piece of scum will experience real pain.