Slammer (36 page)

Riddell ran his hand over his face. He looked up at Glass. 'Do you think
I'm
mad?'

Glass stared at him. 'No, course not. Why would I think that?'

'I thought you trusted me. I thought we'd established that I'm not here to screw you over. I'm here to help you.'

Glass glanced away, then back at him.

'So, do you trust me?' Riddell asked. 'It's important that you do.'

'I suppose so. Apart from the games.'

'So you don't really think I told her …'

'I don't know,' Glass mumbled.

'Nick, this isn't easy. But we do need to move on.'

Glass crossed his legs, folded his arms.

Riddell looked straight at him, held his gaze. 'I need you to remember.'

Glass uncrossed his legs, sat back in his seat. 'I've told you what I remember.'

'We need to go further back. We need to know what happened when you cut your finger off.'

'I don't know what happened.'

Riddell was struggling to get something out, his cheeks literally bulging. Finally, he said, with a puff, 'You can't hide from this for ever.'

A reflex: 'I can.'

'Is that right?' Riddell turned sharply towards him. 'Is that what you want?'

'I don't know. What am I hiding from?'

'You finished night shift. You drove home. What happened when you got there?'

Glass didn't remember. How many times did he need to tell him? 'Why does it matter?'

'What happened, Nick?'

'Watt shot my family. I couldn't help them. Don't you think I've gone over this enough?'

'You couldn't help them because you were tied to a chair in an abandoned flat in Niddrie.'

'Yeah.'

'You sure?'

'You saying I made that up? I imagined that too?'

'No, Watt confirms it.'

Thank Christ.

'But there is a problem, Nick. A big problem. So big that Watt won't be on trial. Not for murder, anyway.'

Glass felt as if someone had shoved a fist down his throat and was stirring his stomach with their fingers. 'What's happened?'

'The post mortem reports on Lorna and Caitlin tell a different story from the one you'd like us to believe.'

Glass shoved his hand to his mouth and gnawed his knuckles.

'Nick,' Riddell said, 'please don't do that.'

Glass groaned, let his hand drop. He breathed. Breathed, breathed, breathed.

'Take your time,' Riddell said.

Post mortem reports. Different story. You'd like us to believe.

Glass sat for a while until he felt he could speak. 'Tell me.'

'Lorna never went to her mother's.'

'Where did she go?'

'Nowhere.'

'She had to have gone somewhere.'

'No. Nick, she was at home all the time.'

'She wasn't. Don't be ridiculous. I know she wasn't—'

'She was in the bath, Nick. Her and Caitlin. By the time Watt found them, they'd already been dead for over twenty-four hours.'

Glass bit his knuckle till he tasted blood.

'They weren't shot in the bath.'

'Stop.'

'It happened in your bedroom. Someone carried them into the bathroom. Laid them in the bath.'

'Stop!'

'Draped a blanket over them. Pulled the shower curtain all the way round.'

'Stop. Please stop.'

'Any idea who that might have been?'

*

He lay awake all night thinking about it.

After a couple of hours, he imagined what Riddell wanted to hear.

He picks up Lorna, carries her through to the bathroom, tries to lay her down gently, the back of her head cracking off the bath anyway, making him cry, red tears dripping into his palms.

Back in the bedroom, he picks up his babygirl, clutches her to his chest. The smell of milk and blood, and the salt taste in his mouth. He takes her to lie with her mother. Lowers her head into the crook of her mother's neck.

He drapes a blanket over them to keep them warm. Slides the shower curtain across to let them sleep.

He closes the suitcase, slides it under the bed.

Runs hot water, soaks up the stains, the water turning crimson.

Heats a meat cleaver over the cooker's gas flame. He cuts off the finger that squeezed the trigger. Blood gushes into the sink. The smell of meat cooking as he presses the blade against the wound.

Before he faints, he phones Mad Will.

Glass's imagination was a powerful one. He almost convinced himself.

By morning, he felt as though someone had sucked out his insides through his belly button.

He washed his face in cold water. As he rubbed a towel over his skin, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He lowered the towel.

At first he thought the mirror in his room had distorted the image. But everything behind him was clear.

What Glass saw was a mockery of who he was.

The short hair. Those shadows under his eyes. And the fat he was carrying. He looked like a fucking chipmunk.

He saw everything clearly.

He walked back to his bed, removed the gun from under his pillow and returned to the bathroom.

He shot the mirror. The glass shattered. His reflection lay in thousands of pieces. Better. Much more accurate.

WEDNESDAY

The next day, in his office, after the small talk, Riddell said, 'You've thought about it?'

'Yes,' Glass told him.

'And what do you think?'

'Watt killed Lorna. He killed Caitlin. He killed my family.' He heard Riddell breathe. Not where he wanted to go, clearly. Glass felt detached. At the moment, he couldn't see a future for himself, couldn't imagine one. The present was all there was, and it was as if it belonged to somebody else.

Riddell slumped back in his seat. 'Nick, the weapon that killed Lorna and Caitlin was in your hand.'

'Doesn't mean anything.'

'You can't ignore the evidence.'

'I'm not. Watt could have got the gun anytime. He got it before. He could have got it again. He could have killed them when I was at work. Made it look like I was responsible.'

Riddell drew his lips into his mouth, then said, 'Why would he go back to your house once he had you tied up at the flat?'

'How do you know he did? Maybe he just wanted to scare me. Maybe he just stepped out into the corridor and stayed there for an hour or so.'

'And listened to you and Mafia talking about him killing the wife and kid he never had?'

'I might have imagined that. But it's what I remember.'

'The story Mafia told you. Where do you think that came from?'

'I suppose I made it up.'

'You ever wondered why you made up a story about a guy who killed his wife and kid and then had someone cover up the whole episode for him? In fact, this guy not only has someone cover up for him but he can't even remember he's done it. You see a parallel?'

'No,' Glass said. '
You
see a parallel.'

TUESDAY, 16 MARCH

A table. It was okay for Glass to eat in company now. The cutlery was all plastic, though, just in case.

Voices bubbled in his veins. One in particular, a stream of gibberish — 'I-don't-know-why-nobody-believes-me-I-didn't-touch-the-clock-it-touched-me-don't-you-get-it?'

'Shut up.' Glass dropped his fork onto his plate. Splashed a little gravy.

'Nick,' a nurse said. 'Stay calm.'

'Well, get him to stop that.'

'It's what he does,' Jason said, scratching the underside of his arm, reddening the scars. 'It's all he does. Just sits wherever he's put and spouts crap till they take him away again. You not noticed?'

'Haven't had the chance.'

'Needs heavier sedation. But they've tried it and he reacts badly. Poops himself.' Jason tapped Glass on the elbow. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Depends.'

'What happened your finger?'

'My finger?' Glass repeated. 'I wish I knew.' He looked at Jason, saw a blur. He wiped his eyes, wiped his cheeks. He smiled. 'I'm in the wrong place,' he said. 'We're all in the wrong place.'

'Amen to that.'

'I don't know who I am any more, Jason.'

'Here's the thing.' Jason leaned in. 'Nobody does. Not you, not me, not this lot of nutjobs we're saddled with, not any of that bunch in charge either. You are who you think you are. You are what you remember.'

'You sure about that?'

'If you're not, then who the fuck are you?'

'What if you don't remember anything?'

'Ah,' Jason said, 'then you're in trouble.'

THURSDAY, 18 MARCH

He was sitting next to that crazy bitch, Annie, watching TV when she turned and said, '
You opened your bedroom door. Lorna's sprawled on top of the bed in her nightdress, snoring. There's an empty gin bottle on her bedside table. You walked round the suitcase, on the floor, open, packed. She must have done it last night.'

Yes.

He shakes Lorna. 'Going on holiday?'

She wakes up, instantly alert. 'I'm taking Caitlin to my mother's.'

'You can't do that!'

'Don't fucking shout at me.'

'I'm not fucking shouting. THIS IS ME FUCKING SHOUTING.'

She grabs a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck and tightens her fingers round it. Her voice is flat. 'We're leaving now. I'll get Caitlin up. We'll get dressed and go.'