Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (11 page)

He had
not been with a girl yet, he had no idea how it felt. Maybe he did
not find them exciting enough to want to try anyway, but then maybe
he was just too afraid. He felt comfortable with Martin though, he
was his best friend and he loved him. He knew Martin had been
through the same thing with his stepfather, they had not spoken
about it but he had seen it in his eyes. That was why the pervert
had moved on from him, to be with Martin. It was another thing he
owed him for, taking on the shame and hurt Martin’s stepfather had
callously thrown his way.

He
looked up towards the top of the Octagon, lounging at the foot of
the Robbie Burns statue were two of J man's foot soldiers. Their
heavy leather vests were covering t-shirts sporting the same
insignia as the patches on their backs. Both men were heavily
tattooed, and they were wearing dark sunglasses hiding their eyes.
They looked like hard men, men who had everything and would not let
anyone take it. People walking past were giving them a wide
berth.

They were on
the other side of the Octagon from Tama but they had seen him. One
of them raised his chin in greeting from across the carriageway
while the other one was talking on a cell phone, probably talking
to J man. J man must be looking out for him, Tama thought with a
bit of pride, making sure he got out of the cells. He nodded back
but knew better than to approach them. You do not talk to a 'Patch'
unless they want to talk to you. Instead, he walked south along
Princess Street towards the bus stop that would take him home.

Reaching into
his pocket, he retrieved his cell phone to text Martin and let him
know his news.

Bridger walked
into his empty house, the silence once again hitting him as he
found himself drawn to the kitchen. The only room he really used
now that she had gone, everything was within an arm’s reach and
there were no pictures of them within view.

An open
book was turned page down on the table where he had left it that
morning. He had not had much time to read in the last few years,
not really being an avid reader anyway; he had never bothered to
make the time. A chance encounter with a poster in a bookstore in
town had drawn him to this book.

He had
been in a dark place, soon after the death of a colleague by
suicide whom he both trusted and respected. However, it had turned
out he had been very wrong in the judgement of their character.
Combining that with everything else that was happening in his life,
with Laura and his drinking, he had hit rock bottom.

Marion
Watson had been through a lot in her ordeal with her captor. She
was having difficulties at first, confronting her demons. She had
seen for herself where demons could lead, watching a person take
their own life was bound to make things abundantly clear. After
talking with her a little while after that, he knew she would
overcome and heal her mental wounds. She was a survivor.

The poster he had seen read simply
'To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in
the suffering'.
It was a quote by a
nineteenth century philosopher named Friedrich Nietzsche. He had
looked at the quote and had seen what Marion had demonstrated to
him, she was bravely trying to discover the meaning of her own
survival.

He bought the book immediately and although it was a heavy
read, he had almost completed it. He had no idea before then that
Nietzsche's writings had influenced a lot of modern
thinking.
In some ways the writings had
helped his own outlook and recovery, he was a long way from being
straight with himself but he was getting there.

He was
too tired to read tonight, so pushed the play button on his CD
player. The Music started playing while he sorted through a pile of
mail that needed attention. The Veils, with Finn Andrews haunting
voice putting a slight chill in his spine. 'Larkspur'.

One
envelope stood out from the rest as he went through the pile. There
amongst the bills and special offers was an official looking
monogrammed envelope sporting the name Jones Allen, specialists in
criminal and family law.

Reading
the single sheet of A4 paper contained inside, his heart lurched. A
polite letter, addressed to him personally, requesting a meeting at
their chambers, date to be arranged, and accompanied by
representation if he should require. It was a meeting to 'discuss'
the terms of divorce proceedings in relation to Laura
Bridger.

Bridger sat
down heavily in the chair next to the table, he could not breathe
and his chest felt like it had caved in. He tried to re read the
letter to see if he had made a mistake but his eyes wouldn't focus
on the page, the words all blurring into one big mess.

The
album playing in the background had moved onto the track, 'Begin
Again'. He did not like what he was hearing, nothing was going to
begin again, and it would not be a joyous thing. He picked up the
CD player and hurled it across the room, ripping the cord out of
the wall as he did so. The plastic casing smashed against the
plasterboard, the surge in electricity caused a fuse to pop,
leaving the room bathed in grey hue in the early evening light.
 

He stood
there breathing heavily, eyes on the cupboard above the
bench.

It would
be a place to hide if only for the night, lost in the fugue of the
alcohol's hypocrisy, always promising better things while slowly
making it worse. He knew that he could easily let himself sink back
into the amber liquid world, it would numb the feeling he was
experiencing now, take away all the anger and frustration. It would
be so easy to let the bottle take him again, but who would that
hurt more.

Laura had
given him no real warning, how had it come to this? All she wanted
was space to sort her head out. When had she come to this decision?
They had not even had a chance to talk properly.

Bridger looked
down at his clenched fists and had to force himself to release the
grip on his palms. Uncurling his fingers slightly and letting the
blood run through them he felt himself relaxing slightly. Maybe it
was not the end of the line, they would talk..., and maybe they
could find common ground again... He would pin his hopes on
that.

He stood
in the darkened room letting those thoughts turn over in his mind.
His thoughts flashed back to the day he had seen Laura in the café
with that man, a man he had never seen before, a man he had not
seen since. He could not even recall what he looked like; the face
was always lost in the painful emotions of the memory. He had been
harbouring a fantasy for the past few weeks. He would see them
together, they would be arguing, the man would push her and then he
could march in and sort it out. He would imagine himself venting
the homicidal rage that he felt towards this man. Laura would then
see he had protected her and it would all be all right again.
Things could go back to the way they were. Sometimes it was a
varied version of that, but always with the same outcome. Tonight
he could not see that happening anymore, the fantasy ended
differently.

Bridger's cell phone vibrated silently on the wooden
tabletop, the glowing screen indicating a text message received.
His mind on autopilot he picked it up and read the message.
'Want to meet? J. x'
.

Bridger glanced over at the book on the table.
'The true man wants two things: Danger and play.
For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous
plaything'
. It was a fitting quote from
the man himself.

Right now he
needed company, if only to stop him from turning to the bottle and
Jane had been playing on his mind since their chance meeting this
afternoon. There is always an excuse for everything.

He typed in a simple reply
'Where?’

Tama had
sensed that Martin was a bit off with him, his reply to the text
sent earlier was short and to the point. He had not been able to
find him either which was strange in itself. Martin did not
normally wander to far from home. He knew the 'Pigs' would not have
caught him, he would have seen him back at the Police station if
that had happened.

He had
been sitting on the bus on the way back to the hood wanting to
share his story but he had no one to turn to. The only people on
the bus had turned their heads away when he made eye contact. One
little kid in the rear had poked his tongue out before sticking his
finger up at him; the boy’s mother had smacked him across the head
before sticking her own head back into the magazine she was
reading. Such a little thing in the boys life, he did not realise
how lucky he was to have a mother that cared. It had actually made
him a little sad to think of his own mother, living under a cloud
of alcohol and drugs. She was such a useless whore; she did not
give a shit about him. She never had.

He tried
thinking of someone he could tell, he wanted to show everyone who
he was. He could not approach or text J man without an invite. That
would be overstepping his boundaries. Martin was missing in action
and there was no one in the house when he had returned home. The
feeling he had this afternoon had started to fade, the initial high
wearing off.

He had been
sitting on the mattress in his bedroom for the last 10 minutes
since getting home to the empty house. They had trashed the place;
they had even ripped the filthy sheet he was sitting back off the
mattress in the corner, revealing a large tear in the fabric
underneath, which was spilling stuffing.

Fucking
police, he thought angrily, what did they think? That he would hide
the shotgun inside his mattress. They had been through the entire
house, nothing had been sacred, not even his mothers room. He had
not bothered to pick anything up; it would not really make much of
a difference anyway.

He was staring
at his cell phone wondering what to do next when the text came
in.

'Got a job, get the tools, meet at usual, at 9'.

The
number was unfamiliar to Tama, but the message was clear, he was
one of the trusted now, he was doing another job. J man must have
got one of his boys to send him the text he was clever like that.
He wondered if Martin was going to be involved. He thought of
sending him a text but then thought better of it, if Star were
involved, he would see him there, if he was not involved, he did
not want him to know, not yet.

Tama looked at
his watch, he had had it since he was a child, it was an old
scratched digital Casio but it still told the time. He had about an
hour and a half, more than enough time to go and get the shotgun
and then get down to the park.

He was
starting to buzz again; he knew he was going to get his patch. He
would finally be somebody. He would do anything now, he had killed
that man and it had not even affected him. He was a stone cold
killer, someone that J man could turn to when he needed something
done.

He
reached under his mattress and retrieved the small point bag with
his junk clearly visible through the clear plastic. One thing the
pigs did not find, he thought. Grabbing a ratty magazine from the
floor and a blackened butter knife, he poured a small amount of the
slightly brown powdery substance out onto the cover. He moved it
about a bit with the knife as he had seen on the movies, before
tipping it into a small piece of foil. He looked around the clutter
next to his mattress and found the glass pipe he was looking for.
Placing the foil in the small bowl at the bottom of the pipe, he
held his cigarette lighter underneath. The powder bubbled and
dissolved in the heat then filled the glass balloon with smoke,
which he hungrily inhaled. The effect was immediate, pupils
dilating, pulse racing. He felt the euphoria flow through him from
his brain outwards to the tips of his fingers and toes then race
back again and slam into his brain once more. The music, which had
been playing quietly in the background, was now clear in his ears
and thumping with the Insane Clown Posse, Hokus Pokus. The whole
room was alive with the angst of the music; the posters were
jumping off the walls, the walls were bulging in and out as if the
house was breathing. He was king of the world, people will look at
him now, admire him, and fear him. He was a killer; he had killed
and did not feel a thing. Stone cold, fucking A.

Standing
up unsteadily, he gathered his darkest t-shirt off the floor. He
did not have the mask from last night that was with the gun, he was
not stupid.

Tama
looked at himself in the mirror, the man looking back at him
smiled, no trace of the boy he was yesterday. With the dope
boosting his confidence, he walked out into the gathering darkness
to collect the tools of his new trade.

It was not
far; he found himself walking with a slight swagger, just a little,
probably not even noticeable but his confidence was building. It
was the walk of a man. He turned left into Isadore Road before
making the right into Hillhead Road then followed the side of the
Golf course until he reached the pine trees, all the while
practicing his walk.

He could just
about see the pad across the park on his right as he sauntered
towards the trees, the high wooden fence blocking most of the light
from within. He knew the sentries would be on the other side,
checking over the top occasionally. He wondered if they knew what
was happening tonight, he wondered if they knew that Tama the
killer was going out on the town again. It did not matter, they
would know soon enough.