Bad Samaritan (17 page)

30

‘
Tell me about your twin'
, Leonard types.

‘
Happy to. But this is about you',
Simon replies.

‘I'm still a bit shaky discussing this. I've never talked about it with anyone. It helps me to know that you understand how it feels. To have a twin. Are you identical?'

‘Yes. Although, as we've grown older we're looking less and less alike.'

‘How come?'

‘He's into sports. I'm a desk jockey. Spend most of my time on the computer.'

‘What sports is he into?'

‘Rugby. Trains hard for it. Has a neck thicker than one of my thighs.'

‘So, people won't ever mistake you for one another?'

‘They used to. All the time. We had fun with it. But now it never happens, cos I'm so skinny. With a grey complexion. Did you and your twin get mixed up?'

‘Constantly. ‘

‘Tell me more.'

‘The nuns put a sticking plaster on the back of our necks. With our names written on them. People used to have to turn us round to check who they were talking to.'

‘Nuns?'

‘It was an orphanage and old folks' home, run by an order of nuns.'

‘Were they nice?'

There's a pause while Leonard counts out a minute.

‘They were not.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘What for? You weren't there.'

‘If I hit a nerve.'

‘I was trying to work out a way to answer. I went with honest and succinct.'

‘Always a good combo I find. Back to you and your twin. Did you have fun with the whole identical thing?'

‘No. We were too scared.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Of being caught. The nuns were a bit too handy with their fists.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You need to stop apologising. What kind of things did you and your twin do?'

‘It was mostly at school. One of us would misbehave and then we would blame each other until the teacher was dizzy with it. And we both got detention.'

‘In my day it was The Belt.'

‘Mum used to talk about that. Was it sore?'

‘Depends on who was giving it to you. Some teachers used to make it their mission to cause suffering. Others hated it and would barely use the thing.'

‘What was your twin's name?'

Leonard paused before answering. Counted out two minutes on the computer clock.

‘John.'

‘Sorry. That was clearly difficult for you.'

‘You're going to have to stop saying sorry. Lol.'

Leonard hated the use of “lol”, and even using it with a sense of irony made him want to hurt someone. But sometimes you had to use all of the tools at your disposal if you wanted to make a connection.

‘Oops. Almost did it there again. Tell me about the orphanage.'

‘We used to call it The Home. And it just occurred to me that there is a subtle but powerful distinction between calling it home and calling it The Home.'

‘Yeah. I “hear” you. Did it feel like home?'

‘Felt like a place where we were parked until the adults worked out what to do with us. The word “home” has connotations of safety, love and comfort. The Home had little of any of those three words. What kind of home did you and your brother have?

Dad died when we were young. Army. Afghanistan. Mum was amazing. And tough on us. Didn't let us away with anything.'

‘Good for her. Did you miss having a positive male influence in your life? Boys do need their dads.'

‘You don't think about those things as a kid. You just get on with it. As long as there was food on the table, cartoons on TV and a decent internet connection, I was sorted. What helped you get through your time in the home?'

Leonard considers typing the truth for a moment. Helping a group of friends, including an almost famous police detective, murder an old man we thought was terrorising us. He grins at the thought of the impact this might have. Goes for…

‘Comics. I loved Superman and Batman and all those guys. Perfect escapism for a lonely wee boy.'

Which is of course a lie. Why would you want to help people? Unless it was for your own brutal ends.

‘Do you miss your twin?'

‘Every day.'

‘What's your abiding memory of him?'

He pauses. Knows the boy is really looking for something pleasant. Considers the truth. And nods to himself.

‘He wet the bed pretty much every night. The usual cure was to be woken up at 5am and dumped in a bath of cold water. This morning his “carer” decided that he should learn a lesson and she stripped his pyjamas from him, wrapped him up in his piss-sodden sheets and left him there for hours while the rest of us went to morning mass and had breakfast. He was suffering from bronchitis at the time. It developed into pneumonia and he died.'

‘Man, that's awful.'

‘Yup.'

‘How did you feel?'

Leonard stops. That's enough, he thinks. If the boy wants more, he's going to have to earn it.

‘I've said enough. There are some places I can't quite go yet. At least not remotely like this.'

‘That's a shame. It feels like we're making some kind of breakthrough here. Please go on.'

Leonard can almost see the desperation to help. This boy really is a Samaritan.

‘Can't. Just can't.'

‘What would it take?'

‘In person? I could maybe open up in person.'

‘Can't do that. Not part of the deal.'

‘Please? I really do feel we would get somewhere if we were face to face.'

‘Sorry
.
'

He takes a gamble.

‘I live in central Scotland. We could meet up in, say, Glasgow?'

‘It's really not allowed.'

Leonard counts out two minutes. It feels like such a long time while online, even to him. Then…

‘Please?'

There's a pause for about forty-five seconds while the boy debates. Then two letters appear.

‘ok'
.

31

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been a few days since my last confession,' I blurt out, like the words are scalding me.

‘Would you rather go into the actual confessional box for this?' the young priest asks. We're sitting side by side on one of the pews.

I shake my head.

‘Thanks for opening up for me at this time of the…' I try to assess the weak light coming in through the high windows of the church and settle for ‘…morning.' I haven't managed to look him in the eye yet, embarrassed that I'm here. But the space around us is having the effect I hoped it might. The air is cool and filled with the scent of old wood and incense, and the air around me echoes with the easing of sin.

‘Your need was urgent. Judging by the energy you were putting in to knocking the door.' His tone is chiding, but his expression is soft with a heavy-eyed smile.

‘Sorry,' I say and look up at him. His eyes are thick with sleep, his hair dishevelled and his breath wears a hint of smoke, peat and the isles. This note of whisky makes him seem more human, and I offer a weak smile of acknowledgement. ‘And thanks.'

‘We do suffer the odd piece of vandalism here, so there's a wee CCTV camera above the door. I saw it was you and came down.'

I suddenly feel cold and cross my arms. ‘Thanks,' I repeat, and I'm aware of his scrutiny. Empathy is cast in the shape of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. I want to punch him. I want him to hug me and tell me everything will be alright.

‘What's going on, DI McBain?'

‘You know me?'

‘I recognised you last time. You were on TV talking about a big case.'

‘Call me Ray.'

‘What's going on, Ray?'

I look up. Meet his eyes, open my mouth and the words are trapped down the swell of my throat along with every anxious moment.

‘Take a breath,' he says. ‘We've got all…' his turn to look at the windows. ‘…morning.' I hear the humour in his tone and manage a laugh. To my ears it sounds like a grunt.

‘I'm OK when I'm at work. Or, I should say, I'm almost OK at work. But when I'm home … the TV, a wee cuddle with the girlfriend distracts for a wee while, but when the world's asleep…'

‘You're alone with your thoughts and a tuned-up imagination?'

‘Something like that,' I answer and think of Maggie curled up on her side, facing away from me and knowing that she's awake and worried as I go through the pantomime of silently dressing and leaving the house. But that's preferable to the roar of my pulse in my ear and the silent scream locked into the muscles of my jaw.

‘Do you have any support available from your employers?'

‘I had a good day today.' I look at him. ‘So why was I so…' I can't find the right words. ‘I had to get out of the house. If my girlfriend had said anything to me I think I would have exploded.' I feel the shame of that last sentence burn and hang my head.

‘It's a pity that the ones we love often get the worst of us,' the priest acknowledges. ‘Tell me why was today such a good day at work?'

‘This is under the confessional seal, right?'

‘Aye.'

‘We saw CCTV footage from the night Aileen Banks died. Her boyfriend's mother was out on the town. Walking along the street just yards from where her body was found.'

‘Right.' There's a note of interest from the priest.

‘But that's not all. She was with someone. A man.' I know he's not going to say anything to anyone, but I can't bring myself to say his name.

He recognises this and asks, ‘And that feeling of having achieved something didn't last when you got home?'

I shake my head. ‘I have no control. There's no rhyme or reason. Everything feels fine. Until it isn't.'

We sit in silence. The shout of pulse in my ear has receded, and my breathing is slow and measured. I follow the in breath with my mind, acknowledge the rise of my chest. Being mindful is the new treatment they say. But how to be mindful when the black dog charges, full of teeth and wrath.

I manage a smile. ‘The irony isn't lost on me,' I say.

He cocks his head to the side by way of a request for an explanation.

‘The church has been the cause of most of my problems, and yet I seek refuge in a church.'

‘Why do you think that is?'

‘Fucked if I know.'

‘That's a cop-out, Ray,' he says kindly.

‘You know, I watch the odd thing on the TV on a Sunday morning. Listen to people say how Jesus helped them get over their addiction or other problems, and I shout at the telly. Tell them to fuck off. Jesus had nothing to do with it. It was you. You did it. Take responsibility for your problems and acknowledge the resilience you found to overcome them.'

‘Why is that important to you?'

‘I can understand the temptation to hand it all over to someone else. Some
thing
else. But ultimately we're on our own.'

He pauses for a beat. ‘Interesting word that. Resilience.'

I nod and look him in the eye properly for the first time. ‘Yeah, and right now it feels like it's completely beyond me.'

32

From the hush of the church to the confessional space of a car. I'm sitting in the passenger seat. Alessandra Rossi has just pulled on the handbrake.

‘You awright, Ray?'

‘Aye.'

She says nothing.

‘I've been better,' I fill in the silence she leaves.

‘You look like shit. Did you sleep last night?'

I hold my hand up. Thumb and index finger almost touching. ‘Today is another day, DC Rossi.' I muster the energy from somewhere. Consider the word, resilience. Let the sense of it work through my muscles. Pray that something takes hold.

I look at the house we're sitting outside of. ‘Let's do this.'

We walk up the path, and the door opens before we can reach to knock.

‘The boys aren't in,' says Helen Davis. The way she's holding the door open reminds me of Jennie Banks, though Helen looks less haunted by events. She's wearing a pair of grey trousers and a long, grey cardigan. A cream blouse and a warm pink patterned scarf finishes off the look. Very Marks & Spencer. I'm getting the impression she doesn't do joggers and t-shirts.

‘Can we come in?' asks Ale.

Helen pushes the door fully open and walks through the hallway and into her living room without a word. We follow.

‘Any more threats being posted?' Ale asks, the concern in her tone real.

‘Not through the letter box,' Helen answers as she takes her seat. She crosses her legs. Places both hands on her lap. Keeping everything contained.

‘Oh?'

‘Simon doesn't go online much these days.' Worry for her son is etched into every line. ‘Some of the stuff people leave on there is utterly vile.'

‘Have you reported it?' I ask.

She answers with a shrug. ‘What's the point? Most of these people are hiding behind fake accounts. Silence one and another two would spring up in its place.' She smiles. ‘Even I opened a fake account. Don't worry, I'm not about to go trolling. I just wanted to keep tabs on what Simon was having to put up with.'

She fidgets with a strand of hair at her neck, twisting it between her index and middle fingers. ‘At first he refused to let these eejits stop him going into these sites. Why should he allow a bunch of cowards to dictate how he spends his time, is his view. Used to spend half his life doing all that online social stuff. Still does all his online counselling stuff. It's something about twins these days.' She shakes her head, her eyes leaking love and concern.

‘Anyway.' She crosses her arms and focuses on Ale. ‘What's going on? Why do you want to speak to me?'

‘It's about Kevin Banks,' answers Ale.

‘Terrible thing that. I heard it on the news. Whatever possessed him? Grief makes us act in strange ways, eh?' She switches position. Left leg over right, as if bracing herself for wherever this conversation is going next.

‘When did you last see him?' I ask.

‘Why do you want to know that?' she asks, and I recognise the delay tactic. Everything that has come out of her mouth since we walked in the door has been part of that strategy. Interesting. Feels to me that at some level she's worried we know something. She leans forward and looks from me to focus on Ale as if seeking an ally.

‘As you say, he's acting in grief,' I reply. ‘But we want to get a clearer idea what's going on in his head, and his wife's not in a fit state to answer our questions.'

‘I had a boyfriend when I was a teenager,' says Ale, aiming for solidarity. A shared experience. ‘My parents and his parents used to meet all the time. Started off as a safety thing, you know? Make sure the boy that their daughter's in love with isn't from a family of nutters. Turned into a good friendship,' says Ale. She shakes her head fondly. ‘They still go away for weekends together … and I dumped him years ago.'

‘That's nice,' says Helen with a smile as false as a plaster Madonna's tears. She's worried, and it's not just about her boys. There's a personal factor here. Ale and I then sit still and say nothing. First one to speak loses.

‘I'm trying to remember the last time I saw Kevin. Must have been some university thing. An open day or something.' She's slowly moving her head from side to side as if trying to access the memory. ‘Can't believe he would do that. The papers are saying he aimed for the bus rather than, you know, to pass it?'

We stay silent. Out of the side of my eyes I can see Ale nod in answer to the question. She's struggling to stifle her instinct to communicate.

‘Terrible. Just terrible. The whole thing,' says Helen as she loosens her scarf and places it on the arm of her chair.

‘You haven't spoken to him since Aileen died?' I ask.

‘No. Don't think my family is at the top of his favourites right now.'

‘And you haven't spoken to him since the last university … thing?' Ale asks. ‘Which was when, do you think?'

‘Jeez, must've been…' Her expression falters and alters. She allows irritation to take over. Attack being the best form of defence. ‘What is this? What the hell are you people doing here, and why are you asking me these questions?' She stands up. ‘I want you to leave now.'

‘Fine,' I say, and both Ale and I stand.

We follow her out of the room and down the hall. Just before she opens the front door, I do the Columbo thing.

‘Just one last question…'

‘What?'

As I turn to look at her, I see her features are beginning to relax with relief. They tighten again, like a boxer might hold up his gloves to fend off a blow.

‘The night Aileen died…?'

‘I was here. Early bed, cos I had work the next day. Working on a Saturday, eh?' She aims for a lightness in tone and fails. ‘Should be illegal.'

‘Then why are you on CCTV walking up Renfrew Street, hand in hand with Kevin Banks?'