‘I mean, that’s your last in here… You’ve had a bucket already.’
Henderson looked up at the barman, he was older than him, quite a few years older than him but obviously fancied his chances. He knew he could take him, even after a fair drink, but he was still basking in his post-prison glow. His mouth shut fast; the barman retreated.
Henderson took his pint to the corner of the bar, selected a secluded table and sat down. He took a couple of small sips, it made him want a cigarette. He hadn’t yet adapted to the smoking ban, and didn’t like going outdoors for a drag. He massaged the brow of his head with his fingertips and let out a sigh.
His mind had wandered earlier; he knew why.
He didn’t like to think about the incident he had tried to lock away for so long but he had been forced to stare into the black heart of himself because of Angela. Reading her journal had raised the dead in him; but the bastard Dinger was dead, there could be no revenge now. Henderson understood why Angela had been so hysterical when she saw that item on the news the other night, the item with the body that turned up in a field off the A720. It had been a rekindling of old memories for her; but she could take revenge.
‘What was it with her?’ he mumbled; immediately checking himself. No one in the bar had heard him. He looked back to his pint glass, raised it to his mouth and swallowed another mouthful.
He had started reading her journal thinking it was going to be the spicy confessions of a teenage schoolgirl, but as he read on it turned his stomach. He felt surprised by his reaction; surely it would be natural to feel sympathy for her. After all, she had gone through the same kind of indignity that he had: an adult they should have respected had taken advantage of them. But he didn’t — he felt nothing for her except contempt. For years he had stored up his anger; a social worker had once described him as ‘self-loathing’ and the description had struck him because he knew he did loathe himself. Now he loathed Angela too, because she was no better than him. They were both worthless, but she could do something about it and he couldn’t.
Henderson took out the little mauve-coloured diary and placed it on the table in front of him. It had already started to open at the page he had creased with rereading so many times. He stared at it for a moment longer, took another sip of his lager, and then he raised the diary and read once more.
The next I remembered was waking up in the field…
There was a field on the news — it had set her off, he saw that now.
He thought back to the story from the television report. There had been a murder in a field outside Edinburgh, off the A720. He knew it was a young girl, they had said that on the television. There was no name, at least the filth hadn’t released one. He tried to remember what else had been said but all he could see in his mind’s eye was the footage from the field, the reporter all suited up and freezing by the side of the road. He cursed himself for not paying more attention. Then he cursed Angela for distracting him, arking up and having a carry on. It was her screaming and messing about that distracted him.
He picked up the diary again. None of it seemed real to him. This was a story about a teacher, some gymnastics coach, who had tried it on with Angela and ended up taking her out to a field. And now there had been a story on the news about a girl who had been murdered in the same field.
Henderson tried to concentrate, to think. It was as if the same group of disparate thoughts came back to irritate his mind like a mosquito bite.
He returned to the entry.
… I could hardly move my hands because they were tied, but I pulled and pulled to get free. I felt this fear, it was like terror in me. I tried to blot it all out — like this was all happening to someone else, in a film maybe. It was cold and I had to wee. I remember when I did wee, I felt it run all down my bum and I knew I had no knickers on. I wasn’t able to see very well at first, but I think it was just my eyes getting used to the dark like when you play hide and seek as a kid. I saw the moon first and then I saw him, I recognised the Creep straight away, he had the scratch marks on his face where I went for him. I don’t know what he was doing, just standing there and then he leant over and picked something up, it was my tights from my gym bag, he was rolling them on his hands and then he tried to tie them round my neck. I wanted to say, ‘No, go away’ but I couldn’t speak. When he leant right over I knew I had to do something or he was going to kill me. I don’t know how my hand came free, he couldn’t have tied me properly, but my hand was on a stone, a big rock and I grabbed it up and hit him on the side of the head. He fell onto me, I thought I was going to be crushed, but I wriggled out from under him. I thought I’d killed him but I just kept running and running.
Henderson turned the last page, there were no more entries. He closed the little mauve-coloured diary and placed it in his inside pocket as he stood up and headed for the door.
Chapter 17
The door’s hinges sang out as Neil Henderson returned to the flat he shared in Leith with Angela Mickle. He hung his jacket on the hook and staggered though to the front room, belching loudly as he went. He found Angela splayed out on their filthy mattress, her works sitting on the floor beside her. He angled himself above her, swayed a little as he looked down. There was a white line of dried spittle around her mouth and her skin looked pale as whey.
‘Ange,’ he said.
There was no answer.
He leaned a hand on the wall to steady himself, tried again, ‘Ange, doll… you awake?’
He could tell she was out of it, she had shot up, but he wanted to be sure she wasn’t unconscious. He slid his hand off the wall, kneeled down beside the mattress. As he did so he realised he had put his knee in a pile of sick. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
He pitched himself on his toes, leaned over to pat Angela on the back. ‘Ange, you all right there?’
Her back felt warm, wet with sweat. He rested his hand there for a moment longer; he could feel her lungs expanding as she took breath.
‘Fucking out for the count you are.’
He raised himself, went over to the window and stared out. It wasn’t dark yet but it would be in a couple of hours or so. He took a packet of Kensitas Club up from the window ledge; there was a blue plastic lighter inside next to the cigarettes. He sparked up, blew smoke into the room.
As he looked around, Henderson shook his head. ‘This what I came out for?’ He felt a desire to spit, ‘Not much better than the fucking pound this place.’
He closed his eyes tight as he remembered his latest stint in prison. It took him a great effort to knock the thoughts of the place out, but when he did he reopened his eyes and brought the cigarette up to his mouth, inhaled.
Henderson sat down in the wicker chair by the window; the chair had split and as he lowered himself down a stray wicker prong poked into his leg. ‘Jesus fuck!’ He snatched at the spike, snapped it in his hand. He was ready to kick out but held back; his head was spinning a little now with all the alcohol and he wanted to gather his thoughts for when Angela came around.
He knew what he wanted to say to her, he had it all planned out. At least, after catching the number 26 bus from Princes Street it had all seemed clear. When he missed his stop, after dozing off, and had to walk half the way down London Road and onto Easter Road his plan had faded a bit.
‘Could do with a fucking can.’
Henderson looked over the grimy flat, the paper peeling from the walls, the plaster blotched and stained, the curtains ripped and worn. He had been in worse, but not much worse. And anyway, that wasn’t the point. There was money to be made out there. People were always making money in Edinburgh, the town was awash with it. Flash bastards in big Range Rovers, the ones with the tinted windows that came down the Links. He had made good money off the Links, off his girls. But all he had now was Angela, and a two-grand debt to Boaby Stevens.
‘Fat fucking lot of use you’re going to be to me.’
There was a groan from the mattress.
Henderson raised his voice a notch, ‘I said fat fucking use you are!’
Angela’s head moved a little, the dirty blonde hair on the pillow was stretched out as she looked up.
