Two-Way Split (7 page)

"42 Lochend Drive West." With the pen, Pearce tapped the second drawer down. "Paper, please Pete."

Thompson slid out the drawer and tore off a sheet from the notepad he found inside. Pearce took it from him and wrote down Jack Muirton's phone number. He wasn't home. Pearce left a message on his answering machine, warning Jack what would happen if he didn't pay up tomorrow. When the tape ran out he hung up.

Thompson was scratching the back of his hand.

Pearce placed his phone on the desk. "Take your trousers off," he said.

"Wait a minute." Thompson swallowed. "Can't we sort this out?"

"I don't know. Can we?"

"You want money? I'll give you money." Thompson fumbled in his pocket, located his wallet and brandished it with a look of triumph. He snapped it open and held out a wad of bills. "Here." He waved the money at Pearce. "Take it."

"I don't want your money."

"Take it," Thompson pleaded. "All of it. There's a grand there."

"That's a lot of money."

"Never know when it might come in handy."

Pearce said, "Thanks," and stuffed the money in his back pocket. A grand. Exactly the amount he'd borrowed from Cooper. Enough, now, to pay off only half the debt. "Remove your trousers."

"Come on," Thompson said. "Let's be civilised."

"Please," Pearce said. "How's that?
Please
take your trousers off."

Thompson threw his empty wallet onto the floor. His voice was quiet. "What you going to do?" His fingers moved towards his belt and rested on the buckle.

"Get a move on," Pearce said. "And you'll find out."

"Can I have my money back?"

"What do you think?"

Slowly Thompson unfastened his belt, slipped it out of his trousers and folded it in half. He stroked the leather strap with his thumb, then held both ends and pulled it tight. Spinning, he lashed out. The strap hit Pearce high on his left bicep. Thompson roared and swung the belt again. Pearce caught it, held it firmly and dragged Thompson towards him. Thompson stopped yelling and let go of the belt. Pearce looked at the pink mark on his arm, then switched his gaze to Thompson.

Without a word Thompson unbuttoned his trousers, pulled down his zip and dropped his trousers.

"Off," Pearce said.

Thompson untied his shoelaces, removed his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Although his shirt hung over his groin, he cupped both hands in front of his boxer shorts. "What now?"

"Take your pants off."

"You're joking."

"Do we have to go through this again?"

"Fuck you. You want to see my cock, you poof? Well, fuck you."

The belt buckle caught Thompson just above the eyebrow. He staggered sideways, a look of shock on his face. He started to moan. One hand left his groin to cradle the side of his head.

After a while he said, "I'll leave Ailsa alone."

Pearce watched him for a moment, and lowered the belt. "I know you will."

"And Becky. I'll stay away from both of them."

"I know you will."

"I promise." He looked up. "I'll do whatever you want." He wiped his nose. Snot lodged in his moustache.

"That's good," Pearce said. "I want you to take off your pants."

11:50 am

Just over an hour to go.

Robin sat at a window table for four. At each place setting a plastic stand held a piece of white card with the word RESERVED
printed on both sides in a bold red typeface. Outside, saplings in wire cages dotted the wide pavement in a parody of a Parisian boulevard. Fake cannonballs – sculptures alluding to the traditional one o'clock firing of the cannon from the Castle – pitted Leith Walk's paved, elongated traffic islands.

In the café, music blared. Jazz, heavy on drums and sax, percussive piano muted in the mix. He spread his fingers and stabbed a few chords on the tabletop.

When he was thirteen Robin had auditioned for three of Britain's top music schools: St Mary's in Edinburgh, Douglas Academy in Glasgow and Chetham's in Manchester.  All three offered him a place. He chose Chetham's because, at the time, it had the best reputation.

Shortly after his fourteenth birthday his dad drove him south to his new school. Robin sat in the front seat telling his dad how much he was looking forward to improving his technique so that he could have a shot at the Liszt B minor Sonata, one of the hardest pieces in the piano repertoire. In those days the only trouble he experienced with his hands was an occasional stiffness, easily remedied by submerging them in a bowl of hot water for a few minutes.

Dad reached into the glove compartment and took out a half bottle of whisky. He took a long pull. "I don't care about your arsing
technique
."

Robin cringed. He waited for it. It came.

"You're a leech."

His dad's favourite insult. It had become a nickname, almost. Leech. My son, the leech. "Sorry, Dad."

"Don't cheek me, you little shit." He took another sip. "Leech." A muscle tugged at his upper lip. "Bloodsucker." His lips were pulled back from his teeth. "Parasite."

"I wish you wouldn't be like this, Dad."

His father's face was twisted with rage. He got like this when he drank, which was so often it seemed normal these days. So normal that it never occurred to Robin that his dad shouldn't be driving.

Robin hummed quietly to himself. Chopin's C-sharp minor Nocturne. He tapped out the notes on his thighs.

Dad said, "This money the council have given you."

Robin broke off mid-bar. "The bursary?" The fees were five grand per annum, a sum well beyond his parents' means.

"You'll be there for four years. That's twenty grand. Bleeding us tax payers of twenty grand, right?"

Robin didn't want another hiding. He said nothing and started playing the Chopin again.

"On top of the money we've already spent on bloody piano lessons. See, you've been sucking the life out of me most of your life. And for what? For all this arty-farty crap you and your mother like." He slapped the steering wheel. "Waste of money.
My
money."

"Dad, I need you to—"

The slap stung his cheek. The second slap made his lip bleed. He shielded his face with his hands, tasting warm, salty blood.

"Pathetic," his dad said. "Fourteen years old and look at you, crying like a wee girl."

"I'm not." He lowered his hands to let his dad see his defiantly dry eyes.

Dad mumbled, "Can't even kick a football straight."

They didn't talk for the rest of the journey, Dad sipping his whisky and Robin trying not to cry. When they arrived at his new school, his dad helped carry Robin's few personal items to his dormitory on the upper level of a two-storey prefab. Across the courtyard Palatine House still bore an external resemblance to the Victorian railway hotel it once was. Inside, as Robin recalled from his post-audition guided tour, cacophony erupted from four floors of practice rooms, each identically furnished with a music stand and a Daneman upright piano. To the right, cloisters led to the Baronial Hall, location of public lunchtime recitals. Above the spiked railings that fenced in a croquet lawn, Manchester Cathedral dominated the skyline.

He turned to his dad and said, "I really thought you'd be proud of me."

"I'd be bloody proud of you if you stopped pissing the bed. That would be something to be proud of. But I don't suppose you could do that
legato
in three four time, eh?" His dad left without saying goodbye.

All Robin wanted to do was play the piano. He didn't care what his father thought. The man was a philistine and a drunk and he wasn't worth crying over. While Robin was still in his mother's womb, parasitically clinging to her body, he had managed to suck the life out of his father. At least, that's how Dad saw it.

Once upon a time, Dad had fancied himself as a jazz drummer. Robin had heard him play only once, on a kit in a music shop when they were looking for a new piano for Robin. And the truth was, much as Robin hated to admit it, his dad had been quite talented. But, when Mum became pregnant with Donald, Dad had given up his musical aspirations in favour of a regular income in the bakery department of a meat-processing factory. When Robin followed his brother into the world two years later, Dad saw no way out of his mind-numbing job. According to Mum, that's when the drinking started, and after the accident, it accelerated rapidly.

Funny thing was, once he'd arrived at his new school, and despite the growing frequency of his nightmares, Robin never wet the bed again.

Four years later, music school was over. Since starting college he had been practising eight hours a day. One day, about a month into first term, bolts of fire started shooting down both arms. His fingers hurt when they moved and his wrists burned when they bent. The doctor diagnosed tendonitis and prescribed physiotherapy. Three months later, three months without being able to practice, he was no better, so the doctor prescribed anti-inflammatories, which, after a few days, enabled Robin to play for a couple of hours without pain. This joyous state lasted for all of a week, when he woke up one day to discover his arms were numb, he had difficulty moving his fingers even slightly and his wrists were grossly swollen. He spent the next year and a half seeing all sorts of specialists who could only agree on one thing: he had one of the most severe cases of ulnar neuropathy any of them had ever seen. On good days he tried to play. Most days, something as physically undemanding as brushing his teeth brought tears to his eyes. He left college after fifteen different treatments, including two operations to relocate the ulnar nerve, had failed to help. Mum was heartbroken when it became clear that he wasn't going to be the great concert pianist she'd always dreamed he'd become. His dad said it was all psychosomatic attention-seeking bollocks and the boy ought to get a bloody honest job and stop moaning like a fairy. But by then his leech of a son didn't care what Daddy thought.

"Sir."

Robin heard the waitress clearly enough over the keening of the soprano saxophone, but for no good reason he pretended he hadn't.

"Sir."

One more time? No. He turned his head.

"Would you mind sitting over here, sir?" Her arms were bare, the skin pale and lightly freckled. Her left hand held a notepad and, with her right, she tapped a pencil against her teeth. She was in her late teens.

"What colour's your hair?" he asked her.

"Excuse me, what—"

He smiled at her. "You mind me asking? You look like a redhead. But I can't tell." His eyes rolled upwards. "Because of your hat."

"Have to wear hairnets and these stupid things." She pushed the stupid thing, a hat, back with her pencil, exposing an extra millimetre of damp forehead. "Can't have hair in the food."

"Rules, eh?"

"Tell me about it."

"You know what?" he said. "The hat sort of suits you."

"Yeah?" She laughed. "Right."

"Your eyebrows are fair. But I'm banking on you being a redhead." He nodded. "You going to put me out of my misery?"

She clamped the pencil between her teeth.