The Field of Blood (42 page)

“I’ve got to go, Pete.”

“Where?”

“I need to get the bus to Anderston and tell that wee bastard Patterson what I’ve done. There’s nothing else for it.” She half hoped he’d think of something.

“Right enough.”

She saw into her future, and the best she could hope for was a job in a shop or a factory. She wouldn’t marry; she knew that she’d only marry someone if she panicked now and didn’t have a career. The disappointment was so bitter it made her bones ache.

“I’ll never be a journalist now.”

“That’s right.”

She looked at him. He was staring up at John Knox. She wasn’t at all sure he was really listening. He had other things on his mind, she supposed.

“It would be a shame to recant at this stage,” she said quietly.

He became animated suddenly. “Wouldn’t it? Fear. ’S fear. There are ministers and lay preachers and hairy beasts patrolling the corridors of this hospital, waiting. They can smell moments of weakness. I don’t want to weaken. I’d die sad. This, here”— he pointed at the cannula on the back of his hand—“this is my last defense against them. I’d like to go out on a big burst of that.”

It took her the rest of the visit to work out that he was talking about his four-hourly doses of morphine.

Paddy stood with the other passengers in a neat row, all watching down the road for the bus, their faces pinched against the biting, dusty wind. The bus stop was a shelterless pole on the edge of a Hiroshima desert landscape. The area around the hospital had been razed of its tenements and not yet redeveloped. Ghost blocks were linked by a network of pointless sidewalks and crazed roads leading nowhere. The air smelled dry and dead. Here and there developers had erected fences around their own precious plot, but the wind still had a good, clear run across the land. Tiny dunes of gray dust gathered at the curb.

Paddy promised herself a binge reward. After she had been to the police station and spoken to Patterson she would eat two Marathon bars one after the other. It didn’t matter how fat she got now, because Sean was lost and she would never face the harsh light of the newsroom again. She wasn’t going back. She bowed her head and felt the loss of her future as a drop of pressure. She’d have to work in a shop or something, wear a uniform and take shit from a manageress. She’d probably panic and marry someone unsuitable, just because they asked her, and end up living next to her ma, wondering what the hell happened for the rest of her life.

The passenger at the front of the queue stepped forward, a reflex response to the sight of the bus turning a faraway corner, and the others followed, reaching into pockets and bags for bus passes and loose change for the fare.

Two Marathons and a cheese-and-onion pastry from Greggs the baker’s. And a fudge doughnut. As the bus pulled up alongside, she was planning how she would get all the food up to her room and manage to be alone.

The conductor was all nose. He stood thoughtlessly scratching his balls through his pocket lining as Paddy stepped onto the open platform and asked, “D’ye go past Anderston?”

“Other way. You want the 164. They’re every twenty minutes.”

She stepped off backwards onto the pavement and backed away, digging her hands deep into her pockets, watching the tail of the bus pull away from the curb. She became aware that the sharpness of the wind had changed on the back of her neck.

“Right?” He swung around in front of her, his eyes a brilliant, burnished green. He was wearing a black woolly hat. The stud in his left earlobe glinted brightly against the gray landscape.

“You’re not Heather Allen.”

His pink tongue left a wet trail as it slid across his bottom lip. When Paddy looked into his eyes, her delusions about being able to defend herself evaporated. Cold fear seized her joints, making her stand stiff in front of him while her legs told her to run. She had been able to bully Heather and Terry, but she knew it would be pointless with Garry Naismith. He would go further faster, and it wasn’t because he had more to lose. He wanted to. He liked it.

“I need to see you.”

Her family thought she was at work. She wouldn’t be missed for hours, and the police had their man; they weren’t looking for anyone else. She ducked behind him in panic and saw the back of the bus retreat down the dusty road. His hand was on her elbow, a polite request for her time.

“You know my old man.”

“I need to go,” she said, but stayed where she was. “I need to get somewhere.”

It was a subtle shift of position: his hand dropped an inch, his thumb and forefinger coming together around the tendon on her elbow. Her stomach heaved at the pain, flooding her mouth with saliva, and she arched backwards, trying to release his grip. Garry Naismith loomed, smiling gently at her lips, leaning over as if he might kiss her.

“I see women like you all the time.” He squeezed again. “But ye won’t refuse me this time.”

His free hand rose at his side. Beyond the veil of pain radiating from her elbow, she was aware of his fingers curved comfortably around a dull, matte egg. She didn’t realize it was a rock until the cold stone weight of it hit the back of her head and the night came down.

She wasn’t dead. It was daylight, and she was bent over from the waist, moving forwards across a gray pavement, black woolly tights wrinkled around her ankles, unsteady feet tripping over each other. An arm was hooked under her armpit, supporting her weight, guiding her by the elbow. Her scalp was hot and damp, and she had to concentrate hard to work out that the itching on her hairline was caused by the woolly hat he had pulled onto her head.

Another pair of feet coming towards them. A lady’s shoes: brown, sensible, and a blue shopping bag. The woman spoke, and the supporting arm spoke back, making a joke of it. Paddy slumped forwards and was yanked upright. They moved on.

It was darker. She was sitting on something soft, slumped to the side at an angle that made her side and back hurt. The floor beneath her feet rumbled. She was in a taxi and he was at her side, still holding her elbow, his nimble fingers ready to pinch if she did anything. Imagining the future felt like wading through hot sand, but she tried: they were traveling, on their way to somewhere she would never leave. Her mind yearned to slip back into the warm water, but she fought hard to stay conscious. Slowly she dropped forwards, her chin gently pressed against her knee, and she saw on the floor the squashed end of a cigarette. Meehan never gave up. He spent seven years in solitary confinement, was despised and vilified, and still he never gave up. Using the muscles on her back, she pulled her head up a little.

“Heb,” she shouted, but her voice was weak and toneless.

His fingers twitched and a spasm of white-hot pain convulsed her body.

“Aye, pal,” he said loudly, talking to the driver. “Dead drunk, daft cow.”

“Heb.”

Garry Naismith laughed loud and long, covering the sound of her whimpering until she slid forwards and gave in.

*

The searing pain at the back of her head seemed to have lifted a little. She was looking down at a sidewalk from a great height, falling forwards face-first, and then a sudden stop into his strong and steady arms. Behind her the taxi door slammed hard, and she lifted her eyes to see an empty hanging plant basket by a familiar front door. She stood taller and saw a long, empty road, steep front gardens opposite, and a crumbling garden wall across the street with graffiti on it. FILTH OUT. They were at Naismith’s house in Barnhill, but the grocery van was gone from the pavement. The police must have it.

The police. The thought made her come alive, but the police weren’t here. The police had been here and weren’t coming back. They had their man and the case was closed.

He opened the gate and quickly pulled her across the paved-over ground. The red slabs had settled unevenly and there was a curb to be negotiated at every step. He lifted her by her armpits to the front door, pulling out his key as he approached and opening it in one swift movement. By the time she thought to call for help the door was shut behind her. Garry Naismith grabbed the crown of the hat and yanked it off. A warm dribble of blood tickled as it ran down the back of Paddy’s neck.

The hallway carpet was pink, the walls a cold gray, and Paddy knew it was the last time she would see it if she didn’t do something. She threw her head back.

“Callum Ogilvy!” she shouted, so loud it startled them both.

Garry stopped still.

“He’s my cousin,” she said, conflating their relationship. “You raped him and made him kill that boy.”

Naismith slapped her across the back of the head, sending an electric pain down her spine. She fell onto her side and he put his foot on the side of her face. When she spoke she found that her voice was a breathy whisper.

“You raped him, didn’t ye?”

“Those weans came to me.” She heard him thump his chest with his fist and was glad she couldn’t look up to see his face. “They came looking for me. They needed me. No one else gave a fuck about him, and let me tell you, that dirty wee bastard James needed no convincing. He wanted things I’d never thought of. Even brought his pal with him.”

She could imagine poor, fatherless Callum doing anything he could to impress Garry— Garry with a job, Garry with a cool earring, Garry with a clean house and a van full of sweets outside the door. It must have been a safe place to go, the Naismiths’, a relatively clean place. If she were Callum she’d have come here with his friend. Boys that age craved heroes.

“Wasn’t Callum’s idea to take the baby, though, was it? That was you. Was it Thomas’s anniversary that made you think of him?’ ”

He didn’t speak. She felt the weighty seconds drag by and imagined him raising his hand above her, raising a baseball bat, raising a knife. His foot came off her face, and she glanced up to see his tortured smile.

“Do you think of Thomas on his anniversary?”

“I think about Thomas all the time.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Never said I did.”

“I’m not asking for a confession. I just want to know why.”

He shrugged. “It was an accident. When we were playing.”

“And Henry helped you cover up?”

“He wanted to be a good dad. A better dad. Better than Dempsie.”

“And he did that by throwing your wee brother’s body onto the railway line to be cut in half? He was willing to kill me to protect you, and now he’s confessed to everything? Why would he feel that guilty about you?”

“You”— he had his eyes shut, and his booming voice managed to drown her out—“don’t understand how it is between men. Women don’t understand. There’s no point in explaining.”

“He did it to you, and you did it to them? Is that how it is between men? Did you get them to kill Brian so they’d be like you? So you’d have something over them, the way Henry held Thomas’s death over you?”

He stood up suddenly, flaring backwards, and took her forearm with both his hands, dragging her backwards up the stairs, bumping her awkwardly like a big cardboard box. Paddy knew that upstairs was not going to be good for her. She scrabbled her feet, trying to grab hold of something, looking for a banister to jam her feet in, but it was a sheer wall.

Garry yanked her up, almost pulling her arm out of its socket, bumping her heavily on her hip and buttocks. She couldn’t catch her breath enough to speak until they got to the top of the stairs.

“What about Heather Allen? She hadn’t done anything to you.”

“We made a mistake.” Garry let go of her and lifted a sunshine-yellow lamp off the hall table. He was sweating. “Got the right girl this time, though, eh?”

He brought the lamp down heavily onto her head, and she passed out.

The pain behind her eyes was excruciating. She peeled them open and found herself on the floor in the bedroom, sitting on a red acrylic carpet at the side of a double bed, jammed between the divan and a cold wall. Above her the curtains were drawn on a small window, but she could see thin daylight glowing behind the cheap red material. Her wrists were tied behind her back, a rough hemp rope cutting into the skin. Her feet were out in front of her on the floor, her ankles bound in an incomprehensible series of knots.

The door to the room was open slightly. He wasn’t afraid of anyone’s coming home. They were completely alone. A white plastic fitted wall unit covered the facing wall, and a large Bible sat open in the dressing table insert, gold edging to the pages. She saw a small crucifix on the wall above the bed and knew she was in Henry Naismith’s bedroom. There was no help to be had.

She bent forward, managing to get her hands between the base of the bed and the mattress, and pushed herself up to her feet. She looked up, staggering backwards and falling onto her bruised backside when she saw a blood-splattered woman across the room, peering tentatively from behind the wall unit. She sat straight up, pulling at the bedding, tucked her legs under her, and looked for the terrifying woman, trying to be ready for her. It was a mirror. A black lump of blood-matted hair was clumped above one of her ears. Scarlet lines ran horizontally across her cheek to her mouth where she had been lying on her side. Her face was swollen and bruised.

If Ludovic Kennedy were writing this story, she would just have to wait to be saved. Her tenacity and willingness to confess would be her salvation. But it wasn’t a story, and she realized suddenly, to her horror, that she was going to die and no one would do anything about it. They might not even find her body. There was no justice.

Outside the room soft steps crept across the landing. The only advantage she had over him was that he didn’t know she was conscious. She curled up on her side. He was going to kill her, and all she could think about was the front page of the Daily News carrying the story of her death. Just the facts and not the details. Not the detail that the room smelled of a man’s greasy hair; not that the carpet hadn’t been hoovered and she was looking at a layer of dust under the bed; not that the door was opening behind her and the feet were coming into the room.