Blood Tears (35 page)

The police have got a point, I suppose. Doing their research. Knowledge is power and all that. Maybe I should be doing some myself.

The Mitchell Library in Glasgow is an amazing place, and this is probably only the second time in my life I’ve been in it. I’m at a table with a couple of reference books. Felt like a bit of a weirdo when I asked for them, but hey, I’m sure they get even stranger requests.

There was a sign saying that there is a course on today on the top floor. An Introduction to Counselling. Maybe I should try and waylay the man or woman who is delivering the course and bend their ears for an hour or two. Nah. I’ll content myself with cheery tales of the mad and deranged.

The first book tells of a killer who was freed despite his psychiatrist noting that he was “undoubtedly the most dangerous individual to be released to the community for years”.

He was diagnosed with an antisocial personality disorder
and
schizoid personality disorder with psycho-sexual conflicts. Predictably the man went on to further his
career
. A so-called expert at his prison is quoted as saying, ‘We hate it when one of our parolees goes sour.”

Tell it to the families.

FBI statistics argue that the majority of serial killers come from “broken homes” and have suffered some form of extreme abuse as children. McCall could certainly come into the first category, but could he come in to the second? The FBI, according to this book, have identified thirteen “family background characteristics”. They have an
At High Risk Register
for those who display a high percentage of them. Problem is, the killers are usually in custody before the suits can tick all of the boxes. The characteristics include such delights as alcohol abuse, psychiatric history, criminal history, dominant mother parent and negative relationships with male caretaker figures.

Every case I read I interpose with McCall’s face. Did he, like this man profiled here, die emotionally and socially before he was into his teens? Christ, he’s barely out of them. Or is he suffering from XYY abnormalities as argued in another, equally evil fucker’s profile? Apparently there is a link between XYY problems and extreme antisocial behaviour. The good news is that this chromosomal abnormality can only have an impact on a tiny fraction of the population. Apparently these people are tall, thin and awkward: excitable and hyperactive. Their IQ ranges between 80 and 140 and they have a ten to twenty times greater possibility of being sent to prison or a mental hospital.

There is also a chemical imbalance that can cause problems.
Kryptopyrrole
is the fucker we have to be aware of. High amounts of this stuff are a marker for psychiatric dysfunction. A metabolic defect can occur, called
pyroluria
. Apart from turning your piss mauve it can cause extreme mood swings, poor colouring and a diminished ability to deal with stress. Quite a mix.

I close the books with a thump. What did I hope to find? Some sense would have been nice. Some explanation of why people do the things they do. You could litter the world with theory but only know for sure yourself when you are at that point, the edge of your knife pressed into someone’s flesh. Do you let go, or do you push? Do you have the will to stop? Or do you thirst to see what happens next?

Looking around the room at others hunched over their books, I wonder how many of these fleshy husks house the mind of a killer? How many would register highly on the FBI checklist?  How high would I rate?

Throw a couple of cats in a sack and they will fight to the death. Is that what is happening to society? We’ve been thrown too tightly together?  Seems to me we might have been a whole lot safer from our own as a species if we’d have stayed in the caves and instigated a breeding programme.

Okay, so you’re now a more erudite hunter of a serial killer, McBain. But ultimately, your hands are empty. In the absence of a miracle, all you have is yourself. Time to actually do something. I push my chair back, lift up the books and carry them back to the counter. With a nod of thanks and a smile designed to display my very strong links with sane society I leave the room.

Walking down the stairs I see a couple of women ahead climbing towards me. Their chatter is indistinct but wears a high note of excitement. The outline of one of them and her voice registers on my recognition radar.

‘Theresa,’ is out of my mouth before I can edit my reaction. She stops as if hitting a wall and turns to face me.

‘What are you…?’ We both ask at the same time. Her companion nods at me, smiles awkwardly at Theresa and then leaves us together.

We both laugh self-consciously. Her hair is a little shorter and her face a little thinner, but she looks well on it. I would be happier, mind you, if she didn’t look so determined to keep her distance. I test it and move towards her. One of her feet strays on to a lower step.

‘How are you, Ray?’ Her eyes finally alight on my face. ‘You know… with the…’

‘Any better and I’d be twins.’

She laughs and I want to weave the sound into cloth and wrap it around my shoulders.

‘Aye right,’ she says with a smile. ‘Really, though, how are you?’

‘Enough about me,’ I cough. The least she knows the better. ‘What brings you into this fine establishment?’

‘I seem to remember a certain not so young man trying to encourage me to get a life. I heard there was an introduction to counselling seminar on in here. So here I am.’ She busies herself with her handbag, correcting its perch on her shoulder. ‘You know me. A problem shared is… gossip.’

‘Good for you.’ I move a little closer. She moves her other foot on to the lower step. I put my hands in my pockets, in lieu of a hug. Who do you want to hug, a voice asks. Her or you?

‘So how are you?’

‘I’m fine, Ray.’ She looks away down the stairs.

‘I miss you, Theresa. Can I…’

‘No, Ray. Don’t. I… I'm a married woman.’ She recoils as if I spat at her feet. ‘My husband has to come first.’ She shakes her head, turns and walks downstairs.

I want to follow her. I want to take her by the hand into a quiet corner and hold her. And never let her go. But I just stand there.

A big unmoving lump of silence. 

In my own wee fog of self-pity I leave the library and walk towards the centre of the city. Theresa and I are finished. No way back there. She seemed so uncertain that time in the flat, but this time she was quite definite.
A married woman
. Didn’t stop her before did it? But the minute I want more than a casual fuck it’s the Big Elbow. Just who’s the one with commitment issues here?

Admittedly, there is a certain issue of a number of murders that might conceivably put her off. I guess it makes me less than eligible in most women’s eyes.

My path takes me past the King’s Theatre and with great delight down past Police HQ in Pitt Street. I want to wave and shout “Fuck You” into the small windows, but I have a shred of sanity that demands I keep my gaze on the pavement, my mouth closed and my hands very firmly in my pockets.

I wonder what their expert is telling them about me, and how I fit their profile. People are able to extract remarkably un-Christian things from the Bible, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to make me fit into whatever box they have in mind.

As soon as I enter the hotel’s door, I get
that
feeling again. It’s like something cold has burrowed under my skin and is worming its way up the line of my spine.

My phone has Kenny’s number on speed dial. His answering service comes on. Leave a message. No, ya prick. I want to talk to you. Don’t you just hate mobile phones? All this technology and you still can’t speak to someone when you want.

‘Kenny. It’s me, Ray. Phone me. Soon. Soon as you can.’ I pause and add, ‘Bastard.’ For good measure. I wonder if Calum is back yet. Will he be lying on his bed scratching his balls, waiting to give me another quiet lecture?

‘
Wherever you go, I’m there. When you go for a jog, I’ll be a few steps behind. When you go for a drive, I’m riding shotgun. When I go for a shower, you’re sitting on the shitter. No argument.
’

So where is he then? Something has gone wrong and it doesn’t take Psychic Ray to work that one out. No, Ray. Your mind is just working overtime. The prick’ll be up in the room.

The room. I really don’t want to go up there by myself. Every time I think of it the feeling in my back intensifies and the muscles at the side of my mouth curdle.

The receptionist pauses as she hands me my key.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ Polite concern in her raised eyebrows.

‘No… no thank you. Well actually…’ something occurs to me ‘…could someone come up to the room with me and help me with the door.’

She looks at me strangely.

‘It seems… I seem to have a problem with these electronic keys.’ I grow in confidence with my lie and smile. ‘This is going to sound a little odd, but I have a problem with electricity. I produce too much apparently.’ I shrug in a
what can you do
kind of manner.

My act satisfies her. She picks up a phone from somewhere under the counter and speaks into it.

‘The porter will be just with you, sir.’

A couple of minutes later a door opens at the side of the desk and a young man who could well have been described in the serial killer books walks towards me. He is tall, thin, pale and awkward. The only colour on his face comes from a plague of acne. The cuffs of his purple shirt don’t reach his hands and as he swings his arms back and forward the white flag of his wrists wink in and out of view.

‘You need help with your key… sir?’ He is standing in front of me and his hands are now behind his back, as if he escorts people who have a problem with keys to their room every day.

‘Yep. If you don’t mind.’ I walk to the lift and press a button.  In the lift he presses his back against a wall, while I stand by the control panel. We each find a spot to stare at.

At the door to my room I hand him my key.

‘Do your stuff,’ I say. He does so and with a blink of a green light the door opens and he pushes it ajar.

‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ He takes a step back.

‘Actually yes.’ I crane my head in past the doorway. ‘Could you just come in and check something for me?’ I really don’t want him to go just yet. My nerves feel as if they’ve been strung tight against the bridge of a master’s guitar that’s in the hands of a monster.

‘Eh…’ He takes a step forward. Looks like he’s stuck in the grey area between courtesy and fuck-off-weirdo.

‘For fuckssake, I’m not going to try and shag you. Could you just go into the room and check that it’s empty?’

His head performs a couple of quick nods as if he’s arguing with himself. ‘I didn’t think you were, sir,’ he says and enters. He steps to the middle of the room where he can see down between the beds and as I stay by the door he walks to the window. A wee smile creeps on to his face just as he turns to look behind the curtains. ‘Nothing here, sir.’

‘Try the bathroom,’ I say feeling like a twat. Confident now and with a bored expression, he walks to the toilet door and pushes it open.

‘Nothing, sir.’ Every ounce of energy he has is now being used to stop himself from laughing. I shut the door in his face. Bastard.

Nothing. All that for nothing. And what if you were proved right to be worried? You would have put some young boy’s life at risk. The fella laughing at me is a small price to pay for being so stupid.

Sitting on the edge of my bed I look around the room. That feeling is still there. What the hell is it? Lifting up the quilt covers that brush the carpet, I look under each bed. Nothing.

Then I look in the wardrobe. My stuff is all there.

Except.

My leather sports bag. Where has that gone? Would Calum have borrowed it for something? It could have been missing for days and I wouldn’t have noticed.

I pick my phone from my pocket and phone Kenny again. Again nothing. Fuck. Where is the prick?

Standing by the window I can see over to the Kingston Bridge. The familiar flow of traffic. Back to the bed. I sit down. Lie down. Turn the TV on. The usual crap. Turn it back off. I have a seat by the table and fidget with a pen and a pad of paper.

Back to the bed. I lie down. Maybe I could pass some time with a wee sleep. Who are you kidding, McBain. Sleep? With this sick feeling? I could meditate. Maybe that will lessen it. Maybe all I need to do is relax.

I kick off my shoes, arrange pillows at the head of the bed and prop myself in an alert seated position. Just before I close my eyes something attracts my attention. On the bedside cabinet, under the umbrella of the lampshade, lies a Bible. I can’t remember putting that there. I swing my legs off the bed and lean my head closer. There’s something sitting on top of it. A circle of small glass balls, with a crucifix dangling off the end.

Rosary beads. 

The rain is so hard it sounds like sheets of gravel are hitting the car. Through the din I try to phone Kenny once more. His phone is still on its answering service. This time I leave a message that is slightly more coherent. I tell him that Calum is still away chasing pussy and that I’ve gone down to Bethlehem House.

I’m in my usual parking space just by the gated front entrance. There are few cars about at this time of night.  I arrived here just as the moon was rising. It’s hard to believe that the sky was clear when I first arrived. Now just a few hours on — the clock in the dashboard reads nine pm — it’s like monsoon season minus the heat. Typical late autumn weather in Bonnie Scotland.

What have I been doing all this time? Thinking. Knowing that it’s up to me doesn’t make it any easier. A woman I hate will die if I do nothing. The policemen in me says go and protect her; the six year old boys argues, leave her to rot.

Those beads really gave me the shits. McCall is better than I thought. He knew where I was and yet he didn’t kill me. That means I can’t be a target.

But that is just what all my instincts have been telling me.

I look over at the building. Rosary beads were ubiquitous in my time here. Even the statues carried them. All the kids had their own set and each set of beads had their own purse. Woe betide you if you lost them. Every saint would be invoked to stop you on your sure and certain passage to Hell.