Kayleigh stares at him, mouth open as Dillon wraps the ends of the bag around Twitch’s throat and ties them in a tight little knot, just under the chin. The bag puffs up slightly as the raping bastard breathes out. Then constricts as he tries to breathe in.
Dillon takes off his gloves and sticks them in his pocket. ‘If you want the wee shite dead: just leave him. You want him to live: pop a hole in the bag before he suffocates. Your choice. I’m off for a beer.’
He disappears back into the club.
The sound of singing filters in from the street, then a bus rumbling past, then someone shouts the odds at their boyfriend. Then a taxi. . .
Kayleigh watches as the bag inflates and deflates over Andy ‘Twitch’ McKay’s head.
Out. . . In. . . Out. . . In. . .
His right hand trembles.
Out. . . In. . . In. . . In. . .
She bites her bottom lip and tries not to cry.
In. . . In. . . In. . . In . . .
A siren, high and thin, flashing past on the main road.
Out. . .
Still.
Kayleigh starts to sob.
10: Lords a Leaping
There was something calming about the view from the castle’s ruined battlements at night: down the steep, dark hill to Kings Park; across the swollen black river to Castle View and the Wynd. Streetlights made sparkling ribbons in the darkness, like a spider’s web flecked with dew.
He raised the bottle to his lips as the first flakes of snow began to fall, drifting down through the cold night air. A 1896 Chateau Laubade Armagnac – over a thousand pounds a bottle – and he was swigging it like a wino. It smoothed its way into his chest with gentle, warming fingers. Keeping him safe against the chill. Blocking the pain from his broken finger.
Making him brave enough to do what had to be done.
Another swig then he gazes into the blackness before him. The cliffs are steepest here: the perfect spot for jumping. Just as soon as he’s finished his Armagnac – it would be a shame to let something so perfect go to waste. When he’s finished – then he’ll go. . .
‘. . . but most of all I’d like to thank our honoured guest for taking time out of his busy schedule to come open our new offices today.’ The fat man steps back and leads the applause.
It’s a featureless industrial unit, identical to all the other featureless industrial units in the Shortstaine business park. If it weren’t for the blue plastic sign above the door: ‘SCOTIABRAND TASTY CHICKENS LTD. THEY’RE FAN-CHICKEN-TASTIC!’ you wouldn’t even notice it. But tomorrow there’ll be a big feature in the local rag – banging on about ‘job creation’ and ‘local economic growth’ – featuring everyone’s favourite white-haired, avuncular MSP: Lord Peter Forsyth-Leven.
Peter smiles and holds his hand up, waiting for the noise to die down before launching into his ‘it’s a great pleasure/challenges of tomorrow/forward Scotland’ speech. The same one he trots out for all these drab little official functions. Opening offices, dedicating park benches, planting trees, you name it – he gets dragged into it. But that’s what happens when you’re an MSP and a bona fide lord to boot. Sixty years of Noblesse oblige.
He finishes with a joke about two old ladies from Castle Hill and Santa’s magic sack, then unveils the tiny blue plaque commemorating this proud moment for ScotiaBrand Tasty Chickens Ltd.
Photographers flash, hands are shaken, everyone smiles, and finally he can escape.
He turns his back on the dismal little place and marches off towards his Bentley, plipping open the locks before he gets there. Other people in his position need a driver and a horde of staff before they’ll go anywhere near the opening of a chicken slaughterhouse, but not him. He has ‘the common touch’, it says so in all the papers.
There’s a man waiting for him, leaning against the fence by the car, hands in his pockets, smiling.
Peter’s mother always maintained that you could learn everything you needed to know about a man by looking at his shoes. This one has black leather brogues, a long black overcoat, well-cut black suit, white shirt, and a scarlet tie. Businessman. Probably with an invitation to another bloody opening.
‘Mr Forsyth-Leven?’ The man smiles and sticks out his hand.
Mister? Bloody cheek – he’s a lord.
Peter works up a smile of his own. ‘Can I help you?’ He opens the car door – just to make sure the man knows he has places to go, people to see, decisions to make.
‘More like the other way around: I want to talk to you about a unique investment opportunity.’
Here we go again.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you Mr. . . ?’ No name is forthcoming. Some people have no manners. ‘But I’m afraid you’d have to speak to my office about that. I think-’
‘No.’ The man holds up a hand. ‘I think you’ll want to deal with this personally. You see the opportunity is specific to you and you alone.’
Of course it is. When is it ever not? Peter sighs. ‘What is it?’
‘Keeping you out of jail, you dirty child-molesting old fucker.’
A siren wailed somewhere in the night. The snow had slowly thickened – going from drifting icing sugar to dense fat flakes that fell steadily from the dark-orange sky. They stuck to his clothes and hair, made tiny proto-drifts in the clefts of the brick that would grow and grow through the night. Falling on his twisted, broken body at the foot of the cliff. Burying it from sight. Locking him away in its icy embrace.
He smiled and took another mouthful of Armagnac.
Getting near the bottom of the bottle now.
If the weather didn’t change, it might be weeks before he was found. Maybe not until the spring. Months. And he’d make the headlines all over again. ‘LORD PAEDO FORSYTH-LEVEN – BODY FOUND!’ His face was numb with cold and alcohol, but the tears still burned.
They sit in the Bentley, the man in the overcoat gazing out of the window, while Peter cries – one hand cradled against his chest, the other covering his face. Sobbing like a little girl. Which is ironically appropriate.
Finally he sniffs and snivels to a halt, wipes his eyes and nose on a handkerchief.
The Man doesn’t even look at him. ‘You finished? Or do I have to break another finger?’
‘I don’t mean to do it. . . I just. . . Sometimes. . . I can’t help it, they’re-’
A hard slap shuts him up.
‘I don’t want to hear you justify why you fuck children, understand? Try telling me again and I’ll beat the living shite out of you.’
‘I’m sorry. . .’ The tears are back.
‘I’ll bet you are: sorry you got caught. Shouldn’t have left all that kiddie porn on your laptop where someone could just break in and steal it, should you?’
‘I. . .’ Peter hangs his head. All these years; someone was bound to find out eventually. But it doesn’t make it any less painful. ‘What. . . What do you want?’
‘I want the painting. The Pear Tree. That’ll do to start with.’
‘The . . . The Pear Tree? But that’s a Monet, it’s worth. . .’
The Man stares at him, face impassive, like a slab of white marble.
Peter clears his throat. Brings his chin up. Shows some of the steel that makes him such a force to be reckoned with on the floor of the Scottish Parliament. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘Two choices. One: I beat the shite out of you, then hand you – and your laptop full of kiddy filth – over to the police.’
For the first time in fifty-four years, Peter almost wets himself. He takes a deep breath. ‘And two?’
‘I take you out to Dundas Woods, break every bone in your body, then bury you alive.’