one twisted voice Read online

  ‘So all the talk of making Trisha work off her debt…’

  ‘There’s no debt. Don’t you get it? How could she rack up any debt when the money was yours all along? Not unless you intend making her pay it back in kind.’ He winked good-naturedly.

  The hammer was forgotten in Richmond’s hand. It slipped from his fingers and clunked to the floor.

  ‘Was my mother aware of this?’

  ‘Your mam, God love her, wasn’t party to your dad’s business dealings.’

  ‘What about Trisha?’

  ‘Totally in the dark. No one but me and my lads knew what was planned for you.’

  ‘Hang on. After what I just did to Iain, why are you still giving it all back to me? Don’t you want one of your sons to take over?’

  ‘Alan, like I said, I’m sixty-eight. My lads are in their forties now. There’s none of us as young as we’d like.’ Tonner indicated the teapot. ‘Who wants the day to day struggle of hanging on to an empire like your dad built when they’d rather just sit and have a nice cup of tea?’

  Richmond shivered as the adrenalin began to deplete from his system and the magnitude of what he’d just learned hit him.

  ‘Wh-what if I don’t want to take it?’

  ‘Then I sell the place, divvy up the takings and give you your cut. My boys and me will need something to retire on, but there’ll still be enough to see you right for a while.’

  Richmond imagined pound note signs, but understood also that there was more to be made if he kept the business going.

  ‘Before you make a decision think of the little lad,’ Tonner said. ‘Michael isn’t it?’

  ‘Mikey,’ Richmond corrected.

  Mikey was destined to be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. He’d require more medical care and attention, nursing and assistance, as he grew bigger. Although Richmond had already committed to giving the little lad the best life he could, it wasn’t about handing him the occasional Mars Bar. If he based it on what he could offer from his pitiful earnings from on-again off-again manual labour then neither Mikey or his mother would enjoy the kind of life Richmond hoped to give them. This was an offer he couldn’t turn down.

  Tonner could see the thought processes working behind Richmond’s features.

  ‘I can see that you’re surprised and little wonder. You’ll be confused by it all and won’t have a clue what to say just now. But that’s fine. I understand. And you needn’t worry. I’m not talking about retiring today. We’ll be around to keep you right til you’ve got your head around the business, then we’ll just take a few quid and slip away quietly.’

  ‘I don’t get it. I just smashed your son’s knee and shoulder yet you’re still happy to help me like this.’ Richmond offered Davey a grimace of regret.

  ‘You weren’t to know what we’d planned. None of us will hold it against you,’ Tonner reassured him.

  ‘Iain might see things differently.’

  ‘Iain’s tougher than he looks,’ said a voice from behind him.

  Richmond jumped at the voice, spun around and saw the big man hobbling in to the room. Once he was inside and the door closed Iain McCoubrey shook his leg a few times, worked off a kink in his shoulder. ‘And obviously a better actor than I’ve ever been given credit for.’

  ‘You’re OK?’ Richmond asked, genuinely concerned for the big guy.

  ‘Glad you didn’t use the claw end of the hammer,’ Iain admitted. ‘But you did the trick. Made me look a right twat, but I’m not one to hold a grudge. Don’t worry, it was good work. Everyone in town will think you’re the hardest bastard to ever walk these streets. You’ll do well, Alan, believe me.’

  Tonner smiled, and he looked like a genial old man instead of the hard-bitten gangster he’d portrayed for so long.

  He picked up his delicate china cup. ‘Anyone want some tea? Shame for it to go to waste.’

  Author’s note:

  This story first appeared in the eBook collection “Off The Record 2: At the Movies” (Guilty Conscience)

  APOCALYSPE NOO

  Getting away from it all was an idea that Josh Linaker subscribed to. Now in his mid-thirties, the haunts of Ibiza and Benidorm and the other party spots he’d once graced had lost their appeal. In fact, some of the lads from work had asked him to go on a booze cruise with them around the Balearics: to him that sounded as appealing as having a six inch nail hammered through his nut sack. No, he’d done the drinking and wenching thing, the staying up all night, and sleeping through the hottest hours of the day, and he was sick to the back teeth of it. He’d been working hard, sometimes fourteen hours a day, and all he wanted now was rest.

  When he was a kid, his dad used to take him fly fishing on the Tyne, out Hexham way, not on the muddy flats that ran through the Toon. He recalled hazy, lazy days on the riverbank, a sense of peace and tranquillity invading his usually overactive child’s mind. Going fishing sounded like a great plan. He always remembered his dad extolling the virtues of the rivers and lochs of Scotland, and when he was younger, they had planned on taking a trip and hiring a cottage somewhere, and wasting a full week or two dangling their rods in the water. Josh had sniggered at the innuendo, and laughed hard when dad didn’t get the joke. Of course, those plans never bore fruition. Josh grew up, became a man with his own ideas of a good time, and took his holidays with the other piss-heads from ‘the job’. He wished now that he’d taken up his dad’s offer. Unfortunately, his dad was dead and gone, almost ten years to the day.

  This was a trip of reconciliation. Things had grown fractious with his dad towards the end. His dad didn’t approve of his career choice, couldn’t understand why his lad had chosen to join the coppers, an enemy he’d fought tooth and nail when Maggie closed the pits. Dad didn’t understand that the police service was different than during the miner’s riots, that PACE had changed everything and these day’s coppers were decent blokes. Dad couldn’t get past the “bad old times”, though, and had never fully recovered from the beating he’d taken in the back of a Black Maria. The fact that dad had been snatched while kicking the shit out of some poor bloke who had chosen to feed his kids instead of the Unions was beside the point. When he first saw Josh in his uniform, his son could tell that his dad was thinking only of the ruptured spleen and broken hip that had made him an invalid. They had turned away from each other and didn’t speak again. Josh regretted it now, wished that he’d gone to his dad’s funeral, made his peace. That’s all he wanted now: peace. Maybe if he was sitting on the shores of a loch his dad’s spirit would be close to him and he’d be able to tell his dad he loved him, always did, despite their differences.

  On the drive up from Newcastle he’d had the radio on, and it must have been fate or something because the Mike and the Mechanics lament about the living years had come on: maybe his dad had joined him for the ride after all. He had to pull over at a Little Chef while he got a grip of his emotions. A cup of tea and a fruit tea scone that cost him nearly eight quid had put him in another state of mind and he’d continued his journey north without stopping. It was a long run, up the A1 and over the Forth Road Bridge. The traffic was horrendous. Part of him wished that he’d taken the A69 over to Carlisle and up the west side instead, because it would have cut his journey by an hour or two. Things got a little easier once he approached Perth and he followed the Inverness road towards Pitlochry. His sat-nav told him to take a left, but he’d a mind to see the famous salmon ladder at Pitlochry and continued on. The trail to the ladder was closed, the local council re-laying the cinder path, and he made do with stretching his legs in the town. A sausage and bean melt from the local Greggs made up for his over-expensive breakfast, but not for his disappointment at missing the first landmark on his trip. Back in his car he headed off for the remote Loch Tay and the cottage he’d hired.

  He cut through Aberfeldy, and along a winding road. Bolfracks Garden, four acres of woodland and flowers planted by the Menzies clan during the eighteenth century, held no interest
for him, other than the name was decidedly odd to his Geordie ear. Another two or three miles on and he couldn’t remember its actual name, having transformed to Bollocks Garden in his mind.

  Loch Tay was a wide gouge in the terrain, really a widening of the river of the same name. At its western end was a tiny town called Killin, but coming from the east, Josh arrived in Kenmore, a village that time forgot. There was a hotel. A church, and a row of white cottages and tiny post office that looked exactly like they would have two hundred years ago – if not for the cars and 4x4s parked in every available spot. A bridge spanned the river and on the far side were a walled holiday complex, a mini-shopping mall and a caravan park. Josh had no intention of going that side of the bridge. He wanted to get away from it all, so he took the narrow trail that ran along the southern banks of the loch. He noted a reconstructed Neolithic ‘round house’ built on the water, and pinpointed it for a visit later in the week.

  His landlord lived in an ultra-modern split-level house with views over the loch to die for. Josh had booked over the Internet, exchanged emails, and arranged to pick up the keys. The guy made an impression of his credit card, got Josh to sign the slip: no such a thing as chip and pin out here.

  ‘You know where you’re going?’ the bloke had asked.

  Josh shrugged, said, ‘I’ve got my sat-nav, but it seems to be on the blink.’

  ‘You won’t get any reception on your mobile either,’ the landlord chuckled.

  ‘Suits me fine,’ Josh said. ‘A week without hassle, that’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right place. Keep going that way for three miles, look for a white gate on your right; it’ll be open. If you see a phone box, you’ve gone a wee bit too far.’

  Christ, Josh thought, if you seen a phone box in Newcastle you’d have gone back in time!

  Back in the car he’d followed the road, noting that the further it progressed the less maintained it became. Before he found the phone box and had to perform a hairy three point turn, the road was primarily loose gravel and potholes. Backtracking he found the white gate and pulled into a steeply descending drive, and at the end of it the small cottage he’d been seeking.

  Beautiful, he thought.

  The cottage was sandstone, with a slate roof and wooden conservatory, all of it practically hidden beneath a blanket of ivy and flowers he couldn’t identify. Bethany would have loved the place, would have thought it idyllic and charming. She’d have loved to have walked hand in hand with him over the brook – or burn here in Scotland – and down to the waterside. Maybe they’d have even made love out on the pebble-strewn shore, the sound of the chuckling water a romantic backdrop. The thing was, his relationship with his wife had turned as frosty as had the one with his dad. His own fault; he shouldn’t have shagged that blond probationer in the back of his police van. It had been a slow night: but that was no excuse. Beth found out about his dabble from a well-meaning colleague, and that was it. She left him, went home to mum, and the divorce was through within eight months. It seemed like the back of a police van was anathema to all Josh’s family relationships.

  More than a hundred years old, he half expected the cottage to be old fashioned, but it had been done out with all mod cons. Nevertheless he could feel the history in the house, could almost imagine the hustle and bustle of the many generations that must have dwelled here over the years. The landlord had stocked up on the necessaries: bread, milk, bacon, tea and coffee, even a few home baked scones. A fire was already burning in the stove in the living room and a small bucket of coal and a basket of logs were set out for him. He fed the fire, and settled down with a mug of tea and bacon buttie. Tomorrow he’d get his fishing rod out and go down to the loch, but now it was getting dark, and, any way, he was at peace with himself. And that’s what the trip was all about. Peace and getting away from it all.

  There was one problem he hadn’t considered: how did anyone get away from the end of the world?

  Josh was wakened in the night by something strange.

  He had fancifully entertained the notion that his father’s spirit would join him on this trip, but it had been an abstract thought at most. Josh didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really.

  The sound was a series of knocks, a rhythmical cadence that speeded up towards the end. Bump…bump…bump…bumpbumpbump.

  Ever the brave copper, this time something held him tight in the fireside chair. The fire had burned down to cinders, where only a red glow of smouldering coals gave any light to the room. He’d fallen asleep without putting on any of the lamps, and on the floor at his feet were his empty sandwich plate and his cup with a film of cold dregs in the bottom. He was fatigued from the long drive up here, but hadn’t realised just how tired he was. He couldn’t recall placing down the cup or plate, and must have done so in a semi-dream state. Now he was wide-awake and his heart was jumping in his chest.

  He peered behind him, checking out the unfamiliar room, craning to inspect the narrow flight of stairs to the bedrooms and bathroom. He half-expected to see someone standing on the stairs, having chased the ball that had bounced down them. There was no one there.

  He heard the sound repeated.

  Bump…bump…bump…bumpbumpbump.

  A smile of embarrassment flickered for a moment. Josh leaned over and tapped on the stove. Again the sound repeated itself, but this time it was followed by a gurgle of water through the pipes. The stove was cooling, and so was the water in the central heating: the bumping was the contracting of the pipes as they settled.

  ‘Ghost, my arse!’

  The eerie feeling persisted in him though, and his pulse was still up. He thought that there was no way he would get back to sleep. Not for a short while at least. He stood up, flicked on a lamp, and grabbed logs from the basket and fed them into the stove. When that was done, he went through to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. He used a different cup, left the dirty dishes for tomorrow, a habit born of bachelordom. Then he went outside for a smoke.

  A small garden ran down the side of the cottage, with a high hedge, but at the end it dropped off sharply to the brook. He could hear the water rushing by, but couldn’t see it in the darkness. Out beyond the brook were the floodplains that gently descended towards the loch, but he had no impression of the immensity of water, or the hills on the far side. The clouds had built through the evening, obscuring the moon and stars, and it was as if he stood at the edge of a black void. He stepped back, taking solace in the soft glow of light from the living room window and in the red pinprick glow of his cigarette tip.

  He heard a scream.

  At least he thought it was a scream.

  Could have been an animal – a fox, or one of them huge grouse-things the size of a turkey he’d heard roamed hereabout – but he wasn’t sure.

  Jesus, he thought, I hear enough screaming in the Toon of a weekend. I could do without it here as well.

  He retreated back to the cottage, and this time took the steps up to bed.

  It would be the last time he ever slept soundly again.

  ‘I love the smell of haggis in the morning!’

  The young waitress didn’t get the movie reference, and Josh wondered if they were so out of touch here in the remote outback that they hadn’t got satellite TV or DVDs or any of the other things a big city lad took for granted. Then again, it was a pretty lame play on the famous Apocalypse Now line. Except the breakfast she plonked down before him looked like it was familiar with napalm. The bacon was nigh on black, the eggs crispy, the sausages torched and even the toast was sliced carbon lathered with butter. The haggis looked good, though, and Josh was looking forward to tasting the local delicacy.

  He’d discovered that the monstrous grouse-thing was called a capercaillie, and he was sitting beneath one that had been stuffed and mounted on a cross beam in the café. He thought the huge dog reclining just inside the front door was stuffed as well, but the old thing was just sleeping. It was a docile beast for all its size,
and he’d stepped over it without it stirring and entered the café. There were two girls waiting on, but they outnumbered the clientele this morning. Josh was the only one who had turned up for a fried Scottish breakfast.

  ‘Is it always as quiet round here?’ he asked.

  The girl, a pretty thing with pale, almost translucent skin, and fair hair pulled back in a ponytail, looked back at her friend who was watching from the till. The teller looked almost identical to the waitress now that he thought about it, perhaps a sister rather than a friend. The girl’s exchanged a shrug.

  ‘I thought you might have got a few visitors from along at that time share spot at Kenmore.’ Josh looked at them both, hopeful for some interaction at least.

  ‘It’s the flu,’ his waitress said, her accent a pleasant singsong. ‘Naebody’s oot and aboot at the minute.’

  Josh thought of the news reports, the panic over the recent rebirth of the swine flu, a more virulent strain than the one that had raged throughout the world last year, and thought it was just another of the bad news stories he’d have left behind in the ‘real world’. Shit, there’d been all these calamities lately, with unprecedented snowfalls, floods, earthquakes and recently – like a Biblical prophecy of doom – in America an entire flock of birds had reputedly fallen out of the sky stone dead: anyone would think that the end of the world was nigh or something.

  ‘Is it bad here? I’d have thought it wouldn’t’ve spread here, being so…uh, remote.’

  ‘We get loads of tourists through,’ the girl said defensively. She sniffed, wiped at her nose surreptitiously with her sleeve. She gave him a look that told him he might be a virus-infested sack of pestilence and moved away from him. ‘They bring it here with them. But you needn’t worry aboot catching it; we’ve had oor jabs here. Enjoy your breakfast.’