Two-Way Split (8 page)

"My wife has red hair," he continued. She'd have shot him if she heard him say that. Carol didn't have red hair, or even reddish brown hair, or, God forbid, ginger hair. "Auburn, she calls it."

The waitress frowned, chewed her pencil, slid it out of her mouth and waved it around as she spoke. "I just sort of think of my hair as brown, you know. Light brown. But it's got traces of red in it. In a certain light, sometimes, it can look auburn." She nodded. Pointed her pencil at him. "Definitely."

"Sheila." The voice belonged to a fat waiter balancing a tray of assorted drinks above his head while he struggled to squeeze through a narrow gap between two chairs. A patch of sweat stained the armpit of his purple shirt. "Can you get table seven when you're finished with the gentleman?" He lowered the tray and began distributing drinks to a large family group seated at an adjacent table.

Sheila made a clicking sound with her tongue.

"Boss?" Robin asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Better take your order."

"You need me to move?" Robin started to stand up. He bent his knees and rested one hand on the edge of the table. "Thing is, my wife's meeting me in a couple of minutes and I told her I'd get a window table. She's bringing a friend, too, and I don't want to disappoint them. I don't suppose I could—"

"Stay where you are." She tucked her notepad and pencil into the pocket of her apron, reached over and picked up two of the "reserved" signs. Robin handed her the other two, which she clutched to her chest. "You want a drink while you're waiting?"

"Double espresso," he said, sitting down again. "Thanks." He watched her shuffle into the centre of the room and drop the signs on one of the two empty tables. She hastily positioned them, turned and smiled at him. He gave her a little wave.

"New girlfriend?" Carol waggled her blue fingernails at him in imitation of his gesture to the waitress. He didn't look up. He couldn't look at her face. Something about it made him feel like bursting into tears. The face of infidelity. The face of a liar. "Nervous?" She sat opposite him, lit a cigarette and slid the packet across to him. He ignored her silent offer. She shrugged. "Talking about it helps, Robin."

"Not in public," he said.

He turned his head and looked out the window.
Talking about it helps.
Talk. Don't talk.
Her eyes mocked him. Her mouth sneered at him. When she spoke, her tone was laced with irony. She was sleeping with Eddie. Eddie's hands had been all over her breasts. He'd tasted her, been inside her. Robin glanced at her. She was sucking a cigarette, lips twisted as she blew smoke out the side of her mouth. He'd never seen anything so ugly. He hated her. He hated her so much it made his teeth hurt.

She caught his eye and he managed a flicker of a smile. She might as well have scraped out all his fillings with her fingernails. Her face was pale and cold as porcelain. Her and Eddie. Robin had photographic evidence. Jesus, he wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek, touch her lips, trace the straight line of the one part of her body she liked. But he couldn't. Instead he imagined ramming his knuckles into the slender bridge of her oh-so-cherished nose. Wham. The surprise in her eyes. Wham. Blood spurting out of those pinched slits of nostrils. Wham. Blood running down her face, wham, through her fingers, wham, on her lips, wham, in her mouth, wham, wham, wham.

Like the PI. Oh, shit. He groaned aloud and disguised the sound with a cough. His shirt clung to his back. The music was suddenly too loud, the urgent
glissandi
of the sax like the wailing of a tortured animal. He felt cold. He looked at Carol and she smiled, her nose as perfect as always.

Someone punched him lightly on the shoulder and said, "Robin."

Carol moved over and Eddie sat next to her. Eddie had too many teeth, otherwise he might have been considered handsome. His cornflower blue eyes and blonde curls made him look at least five years younger than his thirty years. Without asking, he removed a cigarette from Carol's packet on the table and said, "What's been happening?"

Carol started to talk. Let her, Robin thought. This was for his benefit.
As if they haven't been fucking each other's brains out.
She was telling Eddie what she'd been doing since the last time they'd met. Right. Eddie was pretending to listen, interjecting her monologue with an occasional grunt or two, straw-coloured eyebrows raised in mock surprise, sucking his teeth now, lips retracted, slowly shaking his head.

Clouds of smoke drifted between them.

A waitress – not Sheila – came over to their table and Robin ordered another coffee. A single, this time. Carol asked for a cheese and tomato toastie and an iced mineral water. Eddie wasn't hungry, but he agreed when Carol suggested he might like something light, like an almond croissant, for example. "And a latte," he added.

Robin could see her fingers itching to touch her boyfriend's coat sleeve. Were they playing a game? Did they want him to guess, was that it? That fuck-me smile she gave him? Robin looked away. Outside, people were wrapped up tight as parcels against the cold. Traffic pulsed up and down Leith Walk. The heavy sky was the same dirt grey as Carol's eyes. He turned and, controlling his voice, said, "You ready for this one, Eddie?"

"Always." Eddie patted his coat pocket.

12:07 pm

Nothing like seeing a naked man to remind you of prison. Ten years of communal showers. Ten years of sex-starved cons leering at you. When he was released two months ago, Pearce had found immense pleasure in the simplest things. Like getting out of bed when he felt like it, putting the light out when he wanted to, choosing what he wanted for dinner, and shitting in private.

He realised he was staring at Thompson's dick. It was very pale, fat, and equipped with an enormously long foreskin. "Turn around," Pearce said. "Put your hands behind your back."

Thompson turned, the front of his thighs pressing against the edge of his desk. His hands moved slowly towards his side and stopped, hovering there. Pearce snatched the bastard's wrists and jerked them together. Thompson yelped. Pearce held both wrists in one hand and fumbled on the floor for the naked man's shirt with the other. When he found it he stuffed one of the sleeves in his mouth and ripped it off at the armpit. He bound Thompson's wrists together with the strip of material.

Thompson howled. "That's cutting me."

Enough. Pearce spun him around and head-butted him. Thompson swayed, jaw gaping, and as his legs buckled, Pearce shoved him backwards. He thumped onto the desk, head striking its polished surface with a crack. His eyes rolled upwards and his eyelids fluttered and closed. He lay still, head tilted to the side, mouth hanging open, tongue blanketing his teeth. Slowly, his chest rose and fell. When he exhaled he emitted a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a low whistle. Tied behind his back, his hands forced his hips in the air. His prick nestled in the crease between his balls.

Pearce grabbed his mobile and dialled Julie's number, even though he was sure she'd chucked her phone.
You want to get engaged, Pearce?
Hope was a killer, wasn't it? A bland English voice told him to leave a message. In the same strangled falsetto he'd used a dozen times before, he said, "You want to get engaged?" His chest felt tight and he was breathing heavily. Maybe she'd kept her phone, after all. He didn't know for certain. His voice whined. "Want to get engaged, Pearce? Want to get engaged?" The phone cracked in his hand, the casing split at the bottom. The hairline curve looked as if somebody had pasted an eyelash onto the plastic. He stopped squeezing it.

He flicked the switch in his head and his anger instantly disappeared. If he closed his eyes now he'd see his dog, Angus, cowering under the school bus, bright pink front leg stripped of fur and skin all the way to the shoulder. Pearce kept his eyes open and said in a normal voice, "Why is the world full of scum?" Thompson moaned. Pearce clipped the phone back on his belt. His forehead had struck Thompson between the eyes and they'd puffed up already. He moaned again. His eyes were open and he was dribbling out the side of his mouth. He looked drunk.

"Can you hear me?" Pearce asked him. Thompson tried to push himself up, but fell back immediately. Tied behind his back, his arms couldn't support him. Pearce leaned over the prostrate figure. "This is going to hurt," he said.

Thompson struggled to lift his head off the table. "I won't touch her again."

"Correct." Pearce stepped away from the desk to pick up the drawer Thompson had emptied in his search for the phone book.

"You don't need to hit me any more. I'll leave Ailsa alone. And Becky." Thompson's voice was shrill. "I won't touch either of them." Again he tried to raise himself. "Christ, I'm dizzy." He managed to hold a semi-upright position for a handful of seconds before falling backwards.

"Nearly ready." Pearce aligned the drawer and slid it back in a couple of inches.

"What are you doing?" Thompson rolled onto his side and lashed out with his left foot.

Pearce grabbed his ankle and crushed it between his fingers. Thompson let out a cry and stopped kicking. His whole body went limp. Pearce didn't let up. He could feel his nails digging into the skin."Why do you do it, Pete?" Pearce grabbed hold of the other ankle and started pulling Thompson towards him. Thompson's naked arse squeaked against the desk's polished surface. "Why do you hit women?" Thompson's buttocks were at the edge of the desk, balls dangling above the empty drawer. He screamed when he realised Pearce's intention. Pearce had to shout over the racket. "You really think you can get away with it?" Thompson's legs flailed ineffectually in Pearce's grip. He stopped yelling to take a breath. Pearce said, "I don't like it."

"What's it to you, anyway?" Thompson tried to sit up. "You fancy her? You can have her."

"Nothing like that." Pearce let go of an ankle to push him back down.

"What, then? Your dad beat up your mum or something?"

Pearce grabbed Thompson's ankle again and started to laugh. "He was never close enough to be within punching distance."

"Don't do it." Thompson tried to sit up again.

"Just what is it you think I'm going to do?"

"Slam my fucking balls in the drawer."

"Okay." Pearce switched his grip from Thompson's ankles to his knees.

"What?"

"You've suffered enough." Pearce helped tilt him forward until his feet were planted either side of the desk drawer.

"I promise," Thompson said.  "I won't touch either of them."

Pearce grinned and jumped forward. His heels pinned Thompson's bare toes to the ground.

Thompson yelled and tried to move. His head brushed against Pearce's t-shirt. His hands were immobilised and Pearce's boots were crushing his feet. Thompson rocked from side to side. After a moment he sat still and shuddered and looked down between his legs.

Pearce heard the splash of water on wood. He placed the flat of his hand against the front of the drawer and said, "One. Two…"

12:32 pm

 "It's the bloke in the photos." Kennedy pressed his phone hard against his ear, straining to hear the decidedly nasal tone of his boss's voice above the rattle of traffic along Leith Walk. Kennedy sidestepped a couple of men carrying a cooker from the back of an illegally parked van into a second hand white goods shop. "Yeah, the one shagging Greaves's missus." He shivered. The smell of hot pastry wafted out of Greggs, making him wish he could dash in and grab a cheese and onion pastie. But he couldn't. Not when he was busy tailing them. "Edward Francis Soutar? That his name?" He paused before saying, "She's here too."

Robin Greaves, a blue sports bag slung over his shoulder, was tucked in behind his wife and her boyfriend. Kennedy lurked twenty feet behind, the hand holding his phone stiff with cold. He switched the phone to his left hand, which, for the moment at least, still had some feeling in it. The traffic lights on the near side of the road turned red. "You can stop shouting," he told his boss. His boss insisted he wasn't shouting, then asked in precisely the same tone and at the same volume where Greaves's party was headed.
Party.
"How should I know?" Kennedy held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. After a minute he repositioned it and said, quietly, "He didn't take his car. He walked."