He read on. There was a lot of puerile nonsense about boys in her class, pressure from her parents to study for exams and falling out with friends.
‘Bloody daft lassie,’ said Henderson as he skimmed the first few entries.
He skipped back and forwards, looking for the part that Angela had made such a fuss about but couldn’t find anything. It was all about school and stealing money out her dad’s jacket to buy cigarettes. It was inane. Nothing to cause the reaction of the night before.
Henderson was beginning to think he’d been had. It seemed the diary covered a period of about six months. After a month or so, she’d joined the gymnastics team, had a new coach who had said she had promise. There were a lot of entries about the gymnastics classes, the training and the after-school club. It bored Henderson.
He got up and took a cigarette from his packet of Club, sparked up.
What was she going on about with this diary?
Was she taking the piss?
He thought Angela had pulled a fast one; that she had used the diary to shut him up, to get away from him. She was probably at the bus station now.
‘The fucking bitch!’
He returned to the small book, scanned it faster, looking, searching for whatever it was that might have happened to her. His attention was roused now, because if there wasn’t something there — something worth his while wading through all this schoolie nonsense — then he’d been had.
Near the end of the diary Henderson noticed the handwriting had changed. It stopped being florid, it lost the big looping curls and smiley-faces above the ‘i’s. It became a scratch, sloped hard to the left and failed to keep a straight line, even though the diary had lined pages.
The entries changed too.
He read:
It was gymnastics class again today. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, the Creep has started to act very strange since the night he tried to kiss me. I told him I didn’t want to do it, but he’s said that if I don’t then I won’t be on the team any more and he’ll tell everyone that I am a slut.
Henderson’s eyes roved over the page, tried to find another mention of the Creep.
He told me that I was the best gymnast he had ever coached and it would be a shame to throw it all away just because I was being immature. I’m not immature, I just don’t want to let him touch me. He said I wouldn’t know what I was missing and that all the other girls in the squad would think they were lucky to be in my position.
Henderson found himself tensing up as he read the diary entries. He crossed his legs, watched his ankle sit at a jagged angle to the rest of his body.
‘The dirty old fucker,’ he said.
Who was this Creep? he wondered. He’d heard about pervs, they called them beasts inside. They were scum, the lowest of the low. Beneath contempt. Hated. This guy was a teacher as well, a square peg
… the thought mangled Henderson’s mind.
He raised the book higher, swapped hands and massaged his left wrist for a little while. He couldn’t quite take in what he was reading, but he was sure it was a juicy story. He wanted to see if she did do the dirty old bastard.
The handwriting started to deteriorate even further now.
I told him no and I told him to stop but he didn’t listen. He forced my top over my head and started to bite at me. I was crying and pushing him away. I remember trying to scream but I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs and then he was on top of me and breathing hard. His breath smelled, I wanted away. I dug my nails into his face and I saw the blood run down his cheek, it made him jerk backwards and he touched his face. He said something to me, called me something but I couldn’t hear what because I was running…
Henderson was startled by a knock at the door; he put down the diary.
It was getting dark in the flat and he put on the main light as he edged past the mattress and crossed the narrow corridor to the door.
‘Who is it?’ he yelled.
There was no reply. He bent down, flicked open the letter box. He could see two legs in blue denims. As he scanned up he saw they were attached to a young man.
‘What do you want?’ said Henderson.
‘Er, I was looking for the lassie, y’know, Angela…’
Henderson straightened himself, he saw the youth was no threat; he opened the door. ‘Oh, aye.’
The young man stepped back, clearly not confrontational. Henderson looked him up and down, he was about to speak and then he suddenly felt a blinding pain strike in the side of his head; he fell to the floor.
‘How’s it going, Hendy?’ A large amorphous black mass loomed over him. ‘Forget about our wee arrangement, eh?’
Henderson started to regain his focus, realised he was bleeding from the mouth. The youth was walking away from him, counting cash as he slowly moved towards the stairwell. Henderson felt his collar grabbed, he was jerked to his feet.
‘Money y’cunt, I want it.’ A finger was pressed in his chest, it was attached to a bulky arm that led to a shaven head with a face like a pug; he recognised it belonged to one of Boaby Stevens’s boys.
Henderson nodded, rapid. ‘You’ll get it, tell Shaky it’s coming, eh.’
The finger moved from his chest to the flesh beneath his chin, pressed so hard it threatened to appear in his mouth. ‘I’ve no fucking doubt about it, Hendy. What you holding?’
Henderson emptied his pockets. His words were strangled as they came, ‘Just this.’
The man in the black leather jacket stepped back, roared, ‘That’s fuck all… It’s two-grand you’re in for, not fucking…’ he counted, ‘Fifty-five sovs, that’s not paying a day’s interest is it?’
Henderson edged towards the flat, spoke, ‘Look it’s coming, I’ve got a decent payoff on the way. Just give me a few days, eh, pal.’
The pug leaned forward, ‘I’m not your fucking pal.’ He drew a fist, planted it in Henderson’s stomach. He fell to the ground, coughed once and then vomited hard.
‘I’ll be back, and you better have the fucking money.’
Henderson’s vision blurred as he watched the man stride down the hall, he was so broad he almost filled the corridor. At the start of the stairs, he turned, pointed to Henderson and said, ‘Don’t forget now… your fucking life depends on it!’
Chapter 12
DI Rob Brennan knew there was a dark shadow which followed him around; it was the ever-present pall of his failure. It clung to him like the grim scent of death that pervaded the morgue, seeped into your clothes, your hair and had colleagues remarking, ‘Have you been to the dead place?’
Brennan knew he should have gone further, he knew he deserved it. He deserved better than having to answer to the likes of Benny, but then, he knew it was never about what you deserved in the ranks, in life. With each year that passed he felt the shackles of his station tighten. He would never rise above DI, he knew it; and he knew why. It was because he was real — a real person. He knew himself and he knew he wasn’t prepared to compromise on who he was for anyone — even if it kept him down.
Brennan saw the types that rose — Wullie had called them floaters, ‘Shit doesn’t sink, son,’ he had said. Floaters were the careerists and corporate gimps, the glory hunters, the desk jockeys, the bull-shitters and whorers, the Napoleon complexes and the, sometimes barely, socialised psychopaths. None cared about the job; none knew how Brennan felt.
Once, he had read about a native American Indian chief who had been confused by the way white men looked. He couldn’t understand why their brows were so furrowed, their eyes stared so intently, showing their need, their intense craving for something more than they already had. He thought they looked insane. The comment had struck a chord with Brennan, not because he was overawed by the chief’s insight, but because he had given voice,
