Then coming upon those pages. Reading just the first couple of paragraphs, enough to make him screw the paper up, pace the floor, start hyperventilating. He breathed into a paper bag until the attack passed. Felt weak, crawling into the bathroom on hands and knees. Splashed water from the toilet on to his face and neck. Hauled himself up on to the pan, sat there for a while, head bowed under its massive weight. When he got back the use of his legs, he uncrumpled the paper, spread it out on the floor. Read the story through.
So it starts again, he thought to himself.
Knew he had to get out before morning. Spent the rest of the night walking the streets, bones cold and aching with tiredness. A café first thing for breakfast. His social worker didn’t get into the office till nine, said he’d talk to a solicitor, see what grounds they had for a complaint. Said everything would be fine.
‘We just have to ride it out.’
Easy words from a warm office; warm family probably waiting at home too. The car his social worker drove was an estate; kids’ football boots in the back. Family man, doing his nine-to-five.
The rest of that day, Darren kept his distance from Greenfield. Walked as far as the Botanics, pretended to be interested in the plants. Kept warm in the hothouses: did about a dozen circuits. Back into town, Princes Street Gardens: he managed an hour’s kip on a bench, until a policeman told him to move on. His plight was remarked on by a group of travellers. They offered him cigarettes and strong lager. He stayed with them for an hour, but didn’t like them: too scruffy; not his kind of people at all.
Art galleries; churches: there was a lot that was free in Edinburgh. By evening, he reckoned he could write his own guidebook. Ate in a fast-food restaurant, taking as long as he could over the meal. Then a pub on Broughton Street. Waiting for a day to pass... it made you realise why people needed goals, needed work. He liked a structure to his day. Liked not to feel hunted.
After closing time, he’d met some more travellers, listened to more of their stories. Then had made his way carefully back towards Greenfield, turning away three times before finally confronting his own fear and overcoming it. Goal achieved.
He crept up the stairwell, expecting at every turn to find a waiting face, a knife-blade. Nothing. Just shadows. Along the landing, past closed doors, sleeping windows. His key sounded like a wood-saw as he slipped it into the lock. Then he noticed his hands were sticky. Stood back, noticed for the first time that his door was smeared with mud... No, not mud: excrement. He could smell it on the back of his hand, his knuckles, fingers. And beneath the shit, something in black paint, some writing. He crouched, wiped his hands on the concrete flooring, looked up at the message.
MONSTER YOU DIE.
The word DIE was underlined twice, just so he wouldn’t miss it.
This was the park.
It hadn’t changed. They’d installed some swings and a roundabout, but the roundabout was gone, leaving only a metal stump. The swings were thick rubber tyres. Tarmac underfoot, playing field off to the left. Trees had been planted, but looked stunted. His aunt’s house... you could see a thin vertical slice of the park from the upstairs bathroom window, peering between two blocks of terraced housing. The house was still there, in darkness, curtains closed. He’d shared a bedroom with his mother at the back of the house, with a view down on to a small neglected garden, the hut which had become his refuge.
There hadn’t been much refuge in the park. The local gang hung out there, and Cary was never allowed to join. He was an ‘incomer’, an ‘outsider’, the two terms sounding like opposites. He stayed on the periphery, clinging to the park railings, until one of them, fed up of cursing him, would come over to administer a kicking.
And he’d take it. Because it was better than nothing.
The one time he’d stalked a cat, squirting lighter fluid on it, watching the tail catch fire... there’d been no one there to see him. Police had questioned the gang, but no one had bothered with Cary Oakes. No one had bothered to ask ‘the runt’.
He stood by the fence now. Half of it was missing. Middle of the night, no one was about. No cars passed. No one to see him as his hands worked at the rusted railings, turning them in their sockets.
Then a sound: drunken laughter. Three of them, young, wandering, not bothered who heard them, whose sleep they might be disturbing. The teenage Cary had lain awake late into the night, hearing above his mother’s breathing the sounds of revellers as they headed home, some singing songs about King Billy and the Sash.
Three of them, not worried about waking anyone because they ruled this place. They ran in the local gang. They were all that mattered.
They were on the other side of the road, but saw Oakes, saw him looking at them.
‘What you staring at?’
No answer. They started a conversation among themselves, didn’t seem to be stopping.
‘One of them paedophiles.’
‘Always hang out in parks.’
‘Or maybe a poof like.’
‘This time of night, just standing there...’
Now they’d stopped. Turning back, crossing the road. Three of them.
Excellent odds.
‘Hiy, pal, what you up to, eh?’
‘Thinking about things,’ Oakes said quietly, one hand still working at the railing. The three youths looked at each other. They’d spent the night in town, pubbing and clubbing. Booze and some drugs maybe. A mix to up the aggression and confidence. While they were still considering what to do with this stranger, and which one of them should take the lead, Oakes hauled the steel rail up out of the fence and swung it. Caught the first one across the nose, which burst open like a flower in one of those speeded-up film jobs. Hands went to face as the young man screeched and dropped to his knees. As the rail finished one arc, Oakes swung it back again, pendulum-style, caught number two on the ear. Number three swung a kick, but the rail whacked against his shin, then swung upwards to smash into his mouth, breaking teeth. Oakes dropped the weapon. Broken Nose he felled with a kick to the throat. Eardrum he smashed with his fist. Shin and Teeth was limping away, but Oakes walked after him, tripped him, then sent a flurry of kicks to his head.
He stood up straight afterwards, got his breathing under control. Looked around at the houses he remembered so well. No one had moved from bed. No one had seen him in his moment of victory. He wiped the toes of his shoes against the prone figure’s shirt, examined them to make sure they hadn’t been scuffed in the fight. Walked over to Eardrum and pulled him up by the hair. Another squeal. Oakes put his lips close to the ear that wasn’t bleeding.
‘This is my place now, understood? Anyone fucks with me gets tenfold back.’
‘We didn’t—’
Oakes pressed his thumb hard against the bleeding ear.
‘None of you would ever listen.’ He was looking towards the gap in the terrace, where his aunt’s house stood. He threw the youth’s head hard against the ground. Patted it once, then turned to walk away.
At twenty past six, Rebus crept into Patience’s flat on Oxford Terrace, armed with bread still warm from the oven, fresh milk and newspaper. He made himself a mug of tea and sat in the kitchen, reading the sports pages. At six forty-five he put the radio on, just as the central heating was kicking in. Made a fresh pot of tea, poured out a glass of orange juice for Patience. Sliced the bread and got a tray ready. Took it into the bedroom. Patience peered at him with one eye.