George was about to suspend the interview when DS Raith barged through door and waved a manila folder at him. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv, but you might want to take a look at these.’ She stood against the wall, face impassive as George flicked through the report and attached pictures.
‘You. . .’ He cleared his throat and stared at Kirkhill. ‘You say that it only happened the one time, and that Danielle was responsible?’
The teacher nodded.
‘Well, want to have a go at explaining how these got onto your home computer then?’ He slapped the pictures down on the tabletop, one after the other. A series of explicit, hard-core pornography, all featuring Danielle and her school swimming coach – James Kirkhill.
Then another set: a different girl this time, with ginger hair and a bone-pale complexion. And another one.
Kirkhill flinched. ‘They. . . They’re not mine. Someone else must have put them on my computer . . . to discredit me! It was-’
‘You’re in the bloody photos! And according to this you’ve got about two and a half gig of assorted kiddie porn on there too!’
Kirkhill stammered, fidgeted, eyes flicking from George to the door and back again. ‘I never . . . it . . . no . . . you see-’
‘You know what they do with paedophiles in Oldcastle nick? Sometimes they get stabbed, sometimes they get the shit kicked out of them, and there was this one bloke got raped with a broom handle. Died a week later: internal bleeding.’
It was like watching a building collapse, one minute James Kirkhill was there, the next there was nothing left but tears and snot and trembling, pale skin.
His hand swirls through the icy water, nothing, nothing, nothing . . . hair. He grabs at it, holding firm. Pull her to safety and everything will be all right. Everything will be-
She comes to him, in his little suntrap, smiling that smile she knows he loves. The one that makes his trousers bulge. Danielle grabs his hands and spins him around. Laughing. ‘I’ve got some news for you. Great news.’ She stops twirling and places one of his hands on her belly. ‘Our love has caused a little miracle.’
No, no, no. . .
‘You have to get rid of it! You’re too young, your career. . .’ Sweat sticks his shirt to his back. ‘Think about the championships, the team!’
‘James?’ She backs off a couple of steps and stares at him, mouth a thin hard line. ‘We are keeping this baby, and you’re going to be the father, understand?’ A smile lights her face like a burning building. ‘We’ll be the perfect family. And if not, I’ll tell my mother. And she’ll tell the police.’
– holding her head beneath the water as she struggles and struggles . . . and then she’s gone, hanging lifeless beneath his fingers as that stupid bitch Sarah screams.
He lets Danielle go.
There will always be more where she came from.
8: Maids a Milking
Filling telephone boxes with soft-core pornography wasn’t a bad job in the height of summer, but on a freezing Tuesday night in December it was an absolute bastard. Brian reached into his armpit and dragged out the Blu-Tack – the only way to keep the damn stuff warm enough to stick ? tore off a blob, pressed it onto the back of a postcard and fixed it above the phone. ‘SEXY SADIE, THE NAUGHTY LADY’ with a photo of an attractive, big-boobed blonde in thigh-high leather boots, matching basque, and whip. Whoever the girl in the picture was, she was nothing like the old dear who actually answered the accompanying phone number. The real Sexy Sadie looked like Brian’s nan.
The phone box was already pretty crowded. There was Mr Aziz’s finest – Sexy Sadie, Busty Becky, and Naughty Nikki – and the usual collection of doms, subs, trannies, tarts and rent boys. Some had photos, others just the promise of personal visits and ‘unique services’. Brian tore them all down, leaving the box clean except for Mr Aziz’s doddery bunch of kinky pensioners, and Dillon Black’s girls.
Brian might be failing geography, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.
Hands jammed deep into his pockets, he nipped across the road, taking his chances with the traffic. The burger joint was busy: hordes of kids eating processed meat and fries, passing around cans of super-strength lager when the staff weren’t looking.
A couple of them nodded hello as he walked in.
Cameron Williams glanced up from his double cheeseburger, mouth hanging open – full of half-chewed mystery meat. ‘Oy, Wanker!’ Doing the hand gesture as well.
Brian ignored him. Cammy was a dick. But he was a big dick and answering back would just get Brian’s head kicked in.
So he joined the queue for till number three instead.
He shuffled forwards, staring at the menu like he didn’t already know it off by heart. Cheeseburger with onion rings, fries, and a large Irn-Bru – same as always. And, as it was bloody freezing outside, one of them deep-fried apple pie things as well.
Bob – his mum’s new bloke – slipped him a tenner to get something to eat while they went down the pub. Which was cool. Meant he’d have enough left over for a packet of fags and a couple bottles of extra strong cider. That’d round off the evening nicely.
He ordered his burger, then settled back against the counter to wait. Checking his pockets: still twenty or thirty postcards to go. That would take him all the way down to the railway station, where there was a nice little corner shop that didn’t mind selling booze and fags to thirteen-year-olds. The free market economy in action: that’s what his English teacher, Mr Kirkhill called stuff like this.
Brian knew all about the free market economy. He was a seasoned practitioner of its darker arts.
The food arrived and he carried it over to an empty table; it was way too cold outside to eat in some piss-smelling shop doorway. He took a big bite of burger and a shadow fell across the table.
A man’s voice, deep and gravelly: ‘Anybody sittin’ here mate?’
Brian shrugged and kept on eating, head down. Free country, wasn’t it?
The bloke plonked himself on the other side of the table and unwrapped whatever it was he’d ordered.
‘You’re Brian, right? Brian Calder?’
Brian shrugged again, still not looking up. ‘Depends, doesn’t it.’
‘Thought I recognized you. We’re in the same line of work, Brian.’
‘Oh aye?’ Why did the weirdoes always have to sit next to him?
He crammed in an onion ring, and took a peek at the nut-job: thin, pasty-faced, goatee beard, hooded eyes and wide forehead, hair like one of them teddy boys you saw on the Discovery Channel, and a diamond ear stud. Fingertip-length black leather jacket over broad shoulders, a Hawaiian shirt and shark’s tooth necklace. Big Johnny Simpson.
Oh Jesus. . .
Brian’s cheeseburger tried to choke him. He coughed, spluttered, forced it down. ‘Mr Simpson.’ He dragged on a smile. ‘Nice to see you.’ Oh Christ. . . ‘How’s Leslie?’
‘Fuck should I know? I’m only her father.’ Big Johnny took a bite of his not-so-happy meal. ‘Bloody kids: soon as they hit puberty they want nothin’ to do with their old man.’ Chew, chew chew.
‘Right. Right.’ Oh God. . .
Big Johnny polished off the burger, fries, and a large Diet Coke, then settled back in his plastic seat and stared at him. ‘You finished?’
Brian glanced down at his food – virtually untouched, the melted cheese all leathery-looking, the onion rings pale and greasy. ‘Not really hungry.’ Not any more.
‘Good.’ Big Johnny stood, towering over the table. Shite: he was huge. ‘Come on, you and me are goin’ to take a little walk.’
Brian’s newly dropped balls tried to claw their way back into his body.
Oh fuck. . .
Half past eight and the city lights made sparkling reflections in the Kings River. Brian had a perfect view of them, because Big Johnny was dangling him – head down – over the water. A truck rumbled by on the bridge above, pigeons cooed on the metal support beams. Brian clenched his arsehole tight shut. Don’t cry. Don’t puke. Don’t beg for Mummy. . . She’d be pissed by now anyway.