The Blood That Stains Your Hands (21 page)

'It's not what I saw,' I find myself saying, 'it's what I did.'

Look up, shake my head. Shit, where did that come from?

She leans forward, elbow on the table, a hand running through her hair. Doesn't look at me. Eyes off somewhere, directed at the floor, but looking far off, looking into the past. I know the look.

'We all did things we shouldn't have,' she says.

People have said that to me before, but never like that. Never with such understanding. Where does her understanding come from? What did she do?

Shake my head, stare at the floor. Whatever it was, it's not going to be remotely close to what I did.

Jesus, here we go. Been in a shit-awful state, up and down and all over the damn place, and all that's been without thinking about the past. Haven't needed the past to feel shit, I've just been feeling shit anyway.

Close my eyes, and I'm back there. Looking at that woman. Feeling so desperately inadequate. Listening to the laughter.

'You ever tell anyone about it?' she asks.

I open my eyes. Fuck, I think I might start crying. Well, there's a bag of biscuits, isn't it? Pull yourself the fuck together, man! This is why you hate women. The tears. The emotions. You hate it.

I don't hate women.

God, head's pounding.

'No,' I say, bluntly.

'I can tell,' she says.

She's smiling. Smiling with me. For me. That's a beautiful smile.

'You have to talk about it some time or else it destroys you.'

'I know.'

'Are you an alcoholic?'

Rueful smile from me, slight shake of the head.

'I... I don't think like that, but then... probably. I don't know.'

'Anything else?'

'You mean drugs and shit?'

She smiles. 'Drugs and shit.'

'Never.' Pause while I think of something else, and then it's there and on out my mouth. 'Sex, according to some.'

'Sex? You're addicted to sex?'

What am I saying?

'I don't know. Maybe, in the way I'm addicted to alcohol. I don't really think about it. Tell me about you. Alcoholic?'

'Possibly.'

'Drugs?'

'Cocaine. When we could get it abroad, and then back here for a while. Kicked it.'

'With God's help?'

'Self control.'

Well, here we are. Talking. Opening up. And suddenly I know what she's going to say, and I know I'm going to tell her. That thing that's hidden away inside.

'Tell me,' she says. 'Don't go into details. Let it pour out. The basics in thirty seconds.'

I put a hand to my mouth, another shake of the head.

'That won't cover it.'

'Give it a go,' she says. Her lips are beautiful. I watch the words come out. She looks at her watch. 'I'll time you, cut you off after thirty seconds. Just do it, soldier.' Another glance at the watch. 'Now.'

I start talking.

'I went out there as a photo-journalist. Bosnia. Wanted to be open-minded, not automatically vilify the Serbs like everyone was doing at home. Got in with a group of Serbian soldiers roaming the forest. They were feral.' Fuck. Taking too long. Too much detail. Just get on with it. Spit it out. SPIT IT OUT! 'They raped a group of women one night. Ordered me to join them. I refused. They said they'd kill one of them if I didn't fuck her. I couldn't get an erection. They killed her. Then they said they'd let the others live if I shot the old guy in the group. I should have shot myself. Or them. I shot the old guy.'

Neither of us checks the watch. I can hear them laughing at me. I can hear the laughter in the forest.

'Jesus, your poor man,' she says.

She leans across and takes my hand.

'I don't think so,' I say.

'The choice between doing something awful or dying is no choice to make. You can't hate yourself for it.'

I squeeze her hand. I almost say,
you weren't there
. What would be the point in saying that? Anyway, there are no words in my mouth. Her hand touches the side of my face.

'God, no wonder you're fucked up,' she says.

I laugh. We stare across the table. A moment. We both know. I might have imagined – if I'd given this any kind of aforethought – that she would have shown herself the door when finding out about me, but she's gone the opposite way. It's what I always say, isn't it? Women love tortured souls in the bodies of tortured men.

We lean towards each other across the table. Our lips meet. The kiss starts slowly, and then suddenly we're standing up, our bodies come together, and the sex starts in a wonderful, headlong, ecstatic, painful rush.

––––––––

W
e're back at the small table in my sitting room, eating breakfast. She was still here when the alarm went off. I went for a shower, got out and she was in the kitchen. Eggs, mushrooms, toast and coffee, which is pretty much all there was to choose from. I'm not one of those guys who has eight-year-old bacon living in the fridge. Women like that too, if they ever get that close.

Had this brief moment of fear that she was going to kiss me without having cleaned her teeth. Yes, go on, judge me for being unromantic, but this ain't the movies. But, so far, she seems perfect. Gorgeous, understanding, great breasts, likes Bob Dylan. I've honestly never been so in tune with another person in my entire life. It's kind of fucking weird, really. So in tune, in fact, that the infatuation has just vanished, to be replaced by this... fuck, I don't even know how to describe it. I don't want to say comfort, because that might make us sound like Terry and fucking June.

Just feels like we've been sitting here eating breakfast together for the last fifteen years.

'This is weird,' she says. 'I mean...'

Smiling, she stops herself.

'Out with it.'

'It's, like, I don't know, Jane Austen or something. Instant romance.'

Can't help laughing. 'You're right,' I say. 'When you're reading those books you lose count of the amount of people who sleep together in the first few days. You're like, stop it, Jane, stop it with all the fucking...'

She laughs. The laugh turns to a smile and she indicates Grace Kelly with a nod.

'What's with Grace?' she asks.

Food finished, two cups of half-drunk coffee on the table. 'Not that I'm judging. She was gorgeous.'

I have my back to Grace, but don't turn.

'Used to think... you know, she was perfect. Absolutely perfect. And then, I know, it's a bit sad, being this age and a picture of Grace Kelly on the wall. Had it up when I was a teenager, then it just kind of stuck with me as I moved my stuff from one crappy marriage to the next. Never put it up though. That would have been a bit unfair. That would've been like my wives having a butt-naked, erect picture of John Holmes hanging above the bed. Then I moved in here, on my own, and I had all my stuff, and there was the old picture of Gracie, and I thought, what the hell.'

She's smiling, the slight laughter still on her lips from the John Holmes gag.

'You're going to have to tell me everything,' she says. 'About what happened in Bosnia, I mean. You need to get it all out there.'

Nodding. Suddenly it doesn't seem frightening any more.

'I will. And you?'

'Well, you were right about one thing. I didn't do what you did, and nothing like it. But, of course I will. I think your need is greater than mine, but I'll give you a rough outline, and then I can take my full turn in the confessional after you.'

'When's this?' I ask, although, thank God, there's no unintended trace of neediness in the tone.

'Hmm,' she says. 'Got church business tonight. Bible study group in the halls. Then going to the airport at eight or nine in the morning to collect Tony. Possibly won't make it to church in the morning. So, not sure. He travels quite often, so we might just need to wait until the next time.'

Suddenly, waiting doesn't seem that hard a thing to do. There's no rush. I've found someone to talk to, and the relief is tangible.

That voice, the voice that ought to be saying,
she's another man's wife!
is silent. The other voice that ought to be shouting at the police officer in me, telling me not to be so involved with someone within the scope of the investigation, is also silent. I've waited so long to find the person to whom I could talk, all other considerations are redundant.

Already I'm imagining that she wouldn't be here in the first place if her marriage wasn't on a shaky peg. I'm imagining the possibility that breakfasts could become a regular occurrence.

'Hopefully by then, this dreadful business at the church will be behind us,' she says.

I give a slight raise of the eyebrows in response, and look at my watch.

'Talking of which. Sorry, got to go. You all right to let yourself out? The door'll lock behind you.'

'Of course.'

Stand up and walk over to look out the window at the morning. She sits in her seat at the table and watches me. We don't speak. I turn, give her a brief kiss on the lips. We smile. I go to the door, grab my jacket and leave. I glance back at her as the door closes.

One last glimpse.

––––––––

B
ack up at the graveyard by the Old Kirk. We've got a guy on watch so that no one can come and dig up the stiff.

One guy. Eight-hour shift. One of those things, isn't it? We have to do it at the moment; it's such a contentious issue. And Connor's in no doubt that we have to be seen to try to keep order, at least. We can't sit back while cadavers are used as pawns. Have to be neutral, although, of course, that's impossible, and we're now seen as protecting the interests of the little faction that buried Maureen's corpse in the first place.

However, it would be massive overkill to post more than one guy on it. I mean, how many spare police officers do you suppose we have for this kind of shit? I can tell you, if Connor hadn't been so concerned about his place in the church community, it would have been a big, fat none. Two, however, is still too many. So there's one poor sod there, standing in a graveyard for eight hours at a time. And what's he supposed to do if someone sneaks up on him through the darkness? How much chance will he have?

The first night, at least, passed uneventfully. I'm not going to be on duty, of course, just came to talk to Mary Buttler. She's in the church when I arrive. Stop off on my way down the path to speak to young Wallace, who'd been on the church gate the previous afternoon.

It's a cold day, bright, but high, grey clouds covering the morning sky.

'Stevie,' I say, walking past graves. Sgt Harrison told me his name, so now I sound like I'm in touch with the young constables around the place, when in fact I can barely tell one from the other.

'Sir.'

'Anything happening?'

'Nothing to report, sir.'

Check my watch. 'You've got another four hours?'

'About that, sir.'

'Do you get a break?'

He thinks about his answer, and what he's going to admit to, then says, 'Nip to the toilet, that's about it.'

Look around. There's a nice light to the morning.

'You want to go and grab a cup of coffee?'

'Sir?'

'I'll cover for you. Nip off for fifteen minutes. Toilet break. Get a drink.'

He's looking at me with slight suspicion. He's relatively new, but I doubt he's had a positive thought about me since he got here. Most of the others at the station probably think of me as 'that dick'.

'Are you sure?'

'Course. I'll be here when you get back.'

He nods.

'Thanks, sir.'

And off he goes. Watch him for a few moments, and then turn away. Look around at the gravestones in this nice light. Hands in pockets, and then decide it'd be all right, while on graveyard duty, to have a fag.

Light up, deep draw, turn and look as the sound of an approaching train starts to spill into the quiet morning.

The train accelerates on its way from Kirkhill station. I watch the tops of the carriages through the bare branches of trees as it disappears into the tunnel that runs beneath this end of the town. The sound is replaced by a low rumble that gradually disappears.

I turn at the sound of footsteps on the grass behind me. Mary Buttler, the keys to the church clinking softly in her hands.

'Good morning, Sergeant,' she says.

'Mrs Buttler.'

'They've got you on graveyard duty?' she asks, smiling. 'I thought it'd be considered the work of barely post-pubescent constables.'

'Just giving the kid a break.'

She nods, seems to take a closer look at my eyes. Moderately disconcerting, so I give her an eyebrow.

'I was going to ask if you were just up here again to sit in silence in the kirk, but that's not it, is it? There's something different about you today.'

'I don't think so.'

She nods. 'Oh, it's quite apparent, Sergeant. There's a weight been lifted.'

'Doesn't feel like I'm smiling,' I say, a little annoyance entering my voice, although admittedly it's only because she's seen right through me.

'You're not. It's deeper than that. It's nice to see.'

Nothing to say.

'So, what can I do for you?'

I look over at the small row of shops on the other side of the far road, the direction in which Wallace wandered off. No sign of him. There's no rush anyway. I may as well speak to Mrs Buttler here as anywhere.

'Wanted to talk some more about the burial. When did you think of it, who did you speak to, did you speak to anyone who hated the idea and thought you shouldn't do it? That kind of thing. If you hadn't thought of it, do you think someone else would've done?'

'That's a lot of questions,' she says, smiling. I join her.

God, she's right, isn't she? I'm not suddenly a grinning goofball, but there's no doubt the weight's been lifted. And it's not what I said, or what happened last night, it's the fact that I've got something to look forward to. Weird how the fact that Philo is married continues to impart not so much as a dent in my anticipation.

'Take me back to the start,' I say.

She went over this stuff with Taylor and one of the constables yesterday, but I thought I'd get her on her own, and with a bit of distance maybe she'd open up a little more. From the look on her face, she's well aware what I'm thinking.