The rise, p.12
The Rise, page 12
The thought of calling Hollie crossed his mind, but he knew exactly what she’d do. She’d call the cops, have Chloe taken back to rehab and then give him a lecture about the ramifications of letting wasted teenage socialites into his apartment late at night.
How long had she been in there? Ten minutes? Fifteen?
‘Chloe?’
No answer.
‘Chloe?’
Nothing. Damn. Tentative, dreading what he’d find, he pushed open the door. There she was, passed out, still breathing. He checked again. Definitely still breathing.
As far as he could see, he was out of options. He lifted her up, carried her over to the bed, covered her with a blanket. It was difficult to tell if it was the situation, the Jack Daniel’s or the flashback that made him queasy. Mirren. Around the same age. Sleeping on his bed. There was a party in his house. His dad had got out of prison that day –he’d been on remand for yet another charge that didn’t stick – and invited all his mates round for the usual freedom ceremony. Police had come to the door a couple of times to tell them to keep the noise down, but it didn’t make a difference. The celebrations had gone on long into the night and… No. Not now. Hadn’t he already decided this wasn’t the time for memories?
The shutters came down on the past, and his hands began to shake. The inside of his skull started banging, so he went back into the other room. He lay on the sofa, then checked every twenty minutes to make sure she hadn’t choked on her own vomit.
That was one headline he never wanted to read: ‘Chloe Gore Found Dead in Zander Leith’s Apartment’. The very thought made him shudder.
When the darkness behind the opaque windows became a shade lighter, Zander knew sunrise was close. He also knew he was only left with two choices.
He stared at the almost full bottle of Jack Daniel’s still sitting on the table in front of him, calling his name. That was option one. Get wasted. Worry about the Chloe situation later. Just surrender to the fucked-up hand that karma had played him and let the whole sorry mess play out whatever way the Gods of Fucked-Up Situations decided.
Or… shit, he must be crazy.
Chloe was still sleeping like the dead when he wrapped her in the blanket, put her over his shoulder as gently as he could and silently made his way downstairs to his car. It was still the dark side of 5 a.m., so he didn’t expect to see his neighbours up and about. As he passed his two homeless buddies, he realized that one of them was awake. Crap. This wasn’t good. For twenty bucks he could give a full report to the National Enquirer and Zander would be done.
Again.
But when their gaze met, his buddy on the street simply took in the sight in front of him, nodded, then closed his eyes. On the one hand, he was relieved. And on the other, he chose not to be concerned that the transportation of what looked like a dead body didn’t command intervention.
After remotely opening the door locks, Zander manoeuvred Chloe off his shoulder and balanced her against the car, while he fumbled to get the passenger door open. Success.
Several long, awkward minutes of manipulation later, Chloe was in the passenger seat and Zander was now aware that Aston Martins shouldn’t be the car of choice when transporting a comatose human.
On the road, he made a call. Hands-free. Less danger of getting stopped by the cops. The Jack Daniel’s a few hours ago might have put him close to the limit and that would only be the least of his problems, way behind the crashed-out teenager in his front seat.
The rest of the journey, he stayed five miles under the speed limit and tried to ignore the palpitations that were making his breath come in short rasps.
When he pulled into his destination, he waited. This could all go so wrong. So, so wrong.
He’d set himself up for a fall and right now he was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
He was putting his trust in an untested source, one that had every reason not to help him.
A light went on in the window in front of him. The door opened.
Zander was out of the car and round to the passenger side, meeting the new arrival there.
Zander put his hand out and Lebron, the nurse from the Malibu rehab clinic, shook it.
‘Thanks, man. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’
Lebron slipped an arm under Chloe’s legs, one behind her back and used his huge bulk to lift her out as if she weighed nothing at all.
‘No worries, bud. Thanks for bringing her back. She must have left after lights out because no one noticed she’d gone.’
Lebron had only taken a couple of steps away when Chloe’s head jerked up and she let out a low wail as she realized what was happening. A piece of Zander’s gut twisted as she looked over Lebron’s shoulder at him, her eyes still hooded with sleep.
‘Come back and get me, Zander Leith. Do you promise? Do you?’
Zander knew he had to be truthful. You can’t lie to an addict. It only messes them up when they find out the truth. The last thing he should do was see her again. He was newly almost sober. She was still in the depths of her addiction. He shouldn’t be around her. It would be a killer for him. Dangerous. Risky. Crazy. Foolish. Destructive.
But somehow, he couldn’t turn his back on her. She was Mirren’s daughter. Despite everything, that meant something.
And from where he was standing, she needed help.
‘I promise,’ he told her.
19
‘DREAM TO SLEEP’ – H2O
GLASGOW, 1986
His mum was crying again. Not the full-scale sobbing that he saw on the TV. In some ways he wished it was. No, this was silent crying, with pursed lips, eyes closed and only the tears that streamed down her face betraying her pain.
Zander wanted to punch a hole in the wall. How many times? How often would he watch her break her heart over a man that they all knew was a fucking arse?
Not that she shared that viewpoint. Not ever.
It didn’t matter how many times Jono Leith didn’t come home, or how many times he was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night by the police. It didn’t matter what he was accused of, or how outrageous it seemed that they had a false wall in the cupboard under the stairs that concealed an arsenal of weapons. It didn’t matter that he’d taken to carrying a knife with him whether he was just nipping to the bookie’s or going out to ‘work’.
It really didn’t matter. All she cared about was that he was her husband, vows taken in front of God, never to be broken, even when the tears ran down her cheeks and made her bruises look like dark puddles in the rain.
Zander took her a mug of tea and sat it on top of the fire-place in front of where she knelt, praying to the picture of Jesus on the wall above it. Tomorrow, she would go to 8 a.m. Mass and by 9 a.m. she would be at peace again, after asking God for support in return for a promise to forgive the man she’d married in his name.
Jono would look at the bruises on her face and tell her it was her own fault.
And then it would start all over again.
There was usually some warning – a loss on the horses, a job that had gone wrong, a couple of nights in the cells – but that afternoon, it had come out of nowhere. Jono had had a couple of the boys round, Jimmy and Hugh, his long-time cohorts. They’d congregated at the kitchen table, their low tones screaming that they were up to something.
At fourteen, Zander already knew to stay out of the way. His mother didn’t. She’d made teas, looked for biscuits, asked after their wives.
‘On you go now, Maggie,’ Jono had said.
Maggie was about to do as he asked when she’d remembered that her rosary beads were on top of the fridge. She’d turned back to get them and walked right into Jono’s fist.
It was short. Sharp. Brutal.
At the door, Zander had gasped, then dived to catch her as she stumbled. Jimmy and Hugh had continued to stare at the box of caramel wafers on the table in front of them.
‘Get her out of here, boy,’ Jono had warned, in a voice that made it clear arguing wasn’t an option.
Rage had twisted Zander’s guts as he’d put his arm around his mum’s waist and supported her as she’d staggered out of the room.
She hadn’t said a word until the door closed behind them.
‘Sandy, he doesn’t mean it, son. He’s just under a lot of pressure. I’m fine. Honestly, it’s nothing.’
The blood that dripped from her nose ran down her chin and stained the crucifix at her neck bright red.
Nothing?
It had taken twenty minutes of first aid and prayer for the bleeding to stop completely, by which time the banging of the door and the silence told them that the men had adjourned to the pub.
That was five hours ago.
Now his mother was on her knees in prayer and Zander realized the rage that was chewing his guts wasn’t going anywhere.
‘I’m going out, Mum,’ he told her. Her response was to increase the volume on the next couple of lines of her Hail Mary.
He stopped by the cupboard in the hall, then grabbed his leather jacket from the hook on the door and headed out into the night. It was 8 p.m. on a February night, so already it was pitch dark. He turned right and took the long way round so he didn’t pass Mirren or Davie’s houses. This wasn’t the time for seeing them. There was no way anyone else was getting dragged into his battle.
Down at the King’s Arms, he opened the door an inch and immediately spotted his dad, holding court at the bar, life and soul of the party. In a minute he would break into song and the rest of his cronies would join in. Then maybe he’d turn on the charm for a woman who caught his eye. Zander had seen it so many times before it made him feel physically sick.
He backed out and left the pub door swinging on its hinges, then walked to the end of the building and dipped into the alley at the side.
Waiting until closing time was the easy part. The hardest was the timing. It took instinct to get it right.
He heard Jono before he saw him, belting out ‘The Wonder of You’ as he staggered through the doors. Zander watched him come in his direction, an arm around a red-headed woman Zander didn’t recognize. She wasn’t even a patch on his mother. Not a patch. Yet she looked at Jono with that same adoration that was so familiar. If only she knew that the flip side of that gregarious charisma was cruelty.
Closer. Jono stopped, pulled her in for a kiss, sang another couple of lines of the song with their faces just inches apart.
Closer. She was giggling now, looking up at him with wide eyes as his hand went inside her jacket.
Closer. ‘Wait! Sorry, Jono, but I’ve left my bag. Oh my God, how did I manage that? Let me just run back and grab it.’
‘On ye go, darlin’, and make it swift. I’ll be right here.’
She kissed him again, giving him time to give her arse a quick grope, eliciting another giggle as she ran back inside.
Closer. Only a few feet away from where Zander stood, Jono turned to face the wall, unzipped his fly, took his dick out and started to pee, now whistling the chorus of ‘Love Me Tender’.
‘… Love me true. All my—’
Bang.
The spray of piss stopped instantly as the baseball bat made contact with the back of his head and he fell forward, banging his forehead against the wet patch on the wall and sliding downwards.
Zander was fifty yards away, concealed by the darkness, when he heard a woman’s screams.
He ran the rest of the way, washed the blood off the baseball bat in the stream that ran behind the gardens on his street, replaced it in the hall cupboard and checked the house. His mum was in bed, asleep. Tomorrow morning, she’d be at Mass again, her bruises concealed by make-up and lies that she’d ask the Lord to forgive.
Zander had no such need for forgiveness.
Heading to the kitchen sink, he leaned over it and begged his body to vomit, to purge him of the feelings of disgust, both for the man who spawned him and for what he’d just done. To the right, the bottle of whisky the men had shared earlier sat half full. He’d seen the effects the stuff had on the guys. They got happy, they got mad, they got evil, they got chilled, depending on who it was. Zander just hoped for numb. He unscrewed the top and drank straight from the bottle. The nausea came first, but then… No sickness. Just a warmth, and later, a reassurance. Everything was fine. Fine. It was all OK. His optimism grew with every drop that reached his bloodstream, until he finally stumbled up to bed and fell into a deep, contented sleep.
When the police came to the door, he didn’t even stir.
20
‘SWEET LITTLE MYSTERY’ – WET WET WET
GLASGOW, 2013
Saturday night in the Grill On the Corner was like a winter wonderland. The sheets of tiny white lights that covered every window were like the separation between real life and Narnia. Outside, a cold, dark, Glasgow city centre night. Inside, laughter, beautiful clothes, subtle music and the aromas of expensive perfume and incredible food.
That wasn’t why it was Sarah’s favourite restaurant. She loved the dark wood floor and the leather booths and the stunning chandeliers that dropped from the ceiling. It was the perfect mixture of class and comfort: gorgeous yet unpretentious, chic but simple.
‘Red or white?’ Simon asked, his hand perched above two bottles.
Sarah smiled. ‘Neither. Just coffee, thanks.’
Wine would perhaps come later, but even though they’d just arrived, right now she wanted a hot drink to warm her bones and some caffeine to give her a jolt of energy. She didn’t even want to count up how many hours’ sleep she’d had this week, but she wouldn’t need to work it out on a calculator.
She watched Simon as he immediately took charge, making everyone feel at ease, being charming as always. Sometimes it was such a relief being with him, knowing that he would be the driving force, arrange every detail of their lives. At work, she had that dogmatic determination to achieve, so when she came home, she was happy to relinquish the social control to him. And he did it so well. Incredible holidays to Dubai, the Maldives, New York in winter. Spontaneous weekends in Perthshire lodges. Nights out like this one, with their friends: great food and conversation. It left all her caffeine-suffused energy for work.
His brown hair, swept back in a Forties movie-star vibe, was a little longer than usual, but it was working for him. To his right, Pippa, girlfriend of his best mate, Rob, had been giving Simon twinkly eyes since they’d arrived. Rob and Simon had met on their first day at university and been friends ever since. Rob was a lawyer in the most profitable company in the city, had already made partner and had little time for a serious relationship. Pippa had been around for a few months – a remarkable achievement given that his girlfriends usually had a higher recycle rate than the paper bin in his office. He seemed unusually keen, and thankfully, oblivious to the fact that she appeared to be doing some serious but subtle flirting with his mate.
Simon handled the attention with impeccable grace, while Sarah didn’t give it a second thought. As he often reminded her, she had been born without a jealousy gene. Zero on the territorial tantrums. Let Pippa flirt – it might keep Simon occupied while she popped out to have a quick chat with Ena Dawson.
It had to be Davie’s mother, didn’t it?
Much as the neds up at the scheme were hardly on a par with Reuters, she had a feeling they knew exactly what was going on. And it wasn’t like Ena was a common name these days. She’d thought about going back to Ena’s house during the day, but she hoped that her existing relationship with Isabel at the soup bus would encourage Ena to open up to her.
There were just a few sips left of her coffee when the others’ starters arrived and she took that as the perfect moment to make her excuses.
Leaning over, she kissed Simon on the cheek. ‘Be back in half an hour, darling.’
Rob leaned back to allow the waitress to place his rock oysters in front of him. ‘You leaving us already, sweetie?’
‘Just for half an hour. Sorry, it’s a work thing. Arranged before I knew we were meeting tonight.’
It was a small white lie. The meeting hadn’t, strictly speaking, been arranged, but Sarah had been set on going to the soup bus to see Ena tonight and Simon’s impromptu dinner plans weren’t going to stop her. Simon didn’t react but she knew he was annoyed. When she’d told him about it earlier, he hadn’t been happy, but she wasn’t going to wait another week to speak to Ena. Everything else had ground to a halt and Ena had become her last straw to grasp.
Slush lapped the sides of her black suede stiletto boots as she walked briskly up the incline on Wellington Street, turned left onto West George Street and got the soup bus in her sights. It was only a few streets but a million miles between where she’d left and her destination. Like all major cities, Glasgow had two sides: the wealth, culture, architecture and rich history lived right alongside the poverty and deprivation.
The bus looked quiet tonight, no stragglers around the entrance, only a few faces in the windows. As she climbed on, Isabel greeted her with a smile. ‘Hey, love. Twice in one week. We’ll be giving you your own seat on here.’
Sarah replied with a hug, scoping the long galley of battered leather seats as she did so. A few old men sat in silence as they ate their soup, their gazes fixed on the Formica table in front of them. Up at the front, Dan, one of the regular volunteer paramedics, was speaking to two others whom Sarah didn’t recognize. Neither fitted the profile for Ena Johnston.
‘Good to see you, Isabel. Here, I brought this.’
Sarah wrestled a Boots carrier containing twenty miniature bottles of shampoo from her handbag, handed it over and was rewarded with a beaming smile.
‘Thanks, love. Staying for a cuppa? Only you’re a bit over-dressed.’ She gestured to the hem of the black sequinned tunic peeking out from under Sarah’s coat, complementing the leather-look jeans and over-knee suede boots.
