Blood Tears (11 page)

‘What are they drinking?’ I ask Bruce. My head has stopped showing me pictures. Instead, my vision is slightly blurred. This drinking malarkey is working.

‘Cocktails. It’s happy hour.’

‘Ah. The very thing.’ I motion with my hands that I would like to try one.

He slaps a cocktail menu on the bar in front of me. Reading through it, I’m forced to smile. Some of these titles are quite funny, in a crass sort of way. The ones that intrigue me most are the “Rusty Nail” and a “Bruised Nipple”.

Feeling a tad self-conscious I order the Bruised Nipple and while my new best friend Bruce pours it out I go and relieve my beleaguered bladder.

I make it to the toilet and back without too much trouble. The stairs are a wee bit tricky on the way down and too much hard work on the way back up. This makes me think cocktails might suit me better than pints. Less fluid, more alcohol. I can get pissed without going back to the toilet too much.

My drink is waiting for me when I get back to the bar. It is elaborately staged with a paper umbrella, a straw and a brightly coloured plastic mixer stick that is shaped like a naked woman. I bend forward to take a sip, miss, and nearly poke my eye out with the mixer stick.

‘Fuck!’ I give it a rub. Bruce grins.

‘Sorry mate. Shoulda warned you about the dangers of cocktail drinking.’

I take a sip. Not bad. Syrupy sweetness almost completely disguises the taste of alcohol.

‘This is okay, my man.’ I grin. It probably looks more like a grimace. ‘Just give me another one of these.’

Bruce leans over the bar towards me. He’s trying to be discreet. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough for now, mate?’

‘Thanks for your… concern,’ I lean in to him. He moves back, out of breathing range. ‘If it’s good enough for the old man, it’s good enough for me.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s your liver, mate.’ He turns to one of the guys from the corner group who has come over to the bar to order a round of drinks. A piece of paper is slipped across the polished wood. Bruce reads it and then turns to his array of drinks to start mixing the various orders.

‘Evening,’ the guy at the bar says when he notices me looking at him.

‘Evening,’ I reply. He’s friendly enough. Some nose on him though.

‘What’s the occasion tonight then?’ I ask. Did I just call him Big Nose?

‘What?’ He can’t quite tie up the insult and the smiling face in front of him. Decides he misheard, ‘Oh, nothing in particular. Cheap booze on a Tuesday. We come in once a month. Have a laugh.’

‘Wish I knew what was so fucking funny.’ Did I just say it again?

‘Sorry?’ he faces me. His eyebrows are raised and his head leans in towards me.  I aim a smile at him. Belligerence is just too much effort tonight.

‘Nothing.’ The urge to be sociable has passed as quickly as it came upon me. I hope Big Nose fucks off pretty soon. We settle in to a moment of quiet. Both of us leaning on the bar, staring at the gantry in the manner of strangers at a urinal. His drinks are squeezed on to a tray. Notes are handed over and Big Nose turns away with an expression designed to tell me how lucky I am. ‘Cheers,’ I offer. I’m glad he’s away. The conversation was getting too much for me.

A strange sensation fills my abdomen. It takes a moment before it registers. I’m starving. ‘Do you do food here?’ I ask Bruce.

‘Not tonight, mate. Chef’s night off.’

‘Any crisps?’ It occurs to me that food will only soak up the alcohol. That would defeat the purpose of the whole exercise. ‘Nah, sorry mate.’ Bruce picks up a cloth and starts to dry off some glasses. This simple action absorbs my attention. It’s like the whole world has reduced to me at a bar and some guy drying the glasses. His movements are practiced and efficient. Soon there is nothing left to clean. Oops, and my glass is empty. I find this hilarious and start to giggle.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asks.

‘Fucked if I know,’ I answer. ‘Here’s another glass to wash.’ I realise I’m exaggerating my pronunciation. Each word is coming out as if it’s in slow motion. ‘One for the road, Bruce.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. The road is particularly thirsty tonight.’  See. Give me a few drinks and my patter is just dazzling,

The movie in my head has stopped. Besides, my stomach is protesting too much. Hunger is something I’ve always had trouble ignoring. The drink arrives and I throw it down my throat. Now I know what they mean when they say “never even touched the sides”. I hand Bruce a note. Not sure what denomination. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Cheers, mate.’ He grins. I walk towards the door. Each step carefully measured. The world and its axis are on a different setting from mine. Wouldn’t do to stumble and make an arse of myself.

As I near the door it opens and a couple walks in. He holds the door open for her to enter first. Just as a man of his age should. He’s a good bit older than she is. Then I realise I know him. It’s Peters. I look at the girl with renewed interest. There’s a surprise. It’s Allessandra Rossi. They’ve spotted me. A look of pleasure spreads across Peter’s face, while Allessandra finds the floor suddenly fascinating.

‘All right, guys?’ I arrange my features into what I hope is a sober expression. Peters looks as if he’s just won the Lottery. Did I just sway there, I wonder? Allessandra’s eyes meet mine.

‘We just thought we’d have a wee drink after a hard day, Ray.’

‘Aye,’ says Peters. ‘Just two colleagues sharing a drink.’ He looks really pleased with himself. He’s out for a drink with an attractive younger woman. Bet that hasn’t happened to him for a while. ‘Not a problem, is it Ray?’

I shrug in slow motion and re-arrange my face into a
here’s twenty pence, phone somebody that gives a fuck
expression.

‘Starvin’,’ I say. ‘Got to go.’ One part of me couldn’t care less, the other part is furious I’ve been caught like this. Before you know it, the whole shift will be saying I’ve got a problem. Drink as much as you like while you are part of a crowd and you’re a good guy. Drink gallons then and no-one will bat an eyelid. Do it on your own and you’re branded a problem drinker. Whoa. You’re getting away ahead of yourself, Ray me lad. No-one has said a thing. They probably don’t even notice that I’m drunk.

I’m in the taxi when it dawns on me. Just two colleagues sharing a drink, Peters said. If that’s the case why didn’t they ask me to join them? 

Looking over her shoulder, Allessandra watches DI McBain through the glass door as he hails a taxi.  He
is
drunk, isn’t he? She isn’t just imagining things?

‘Well, well, well,’ says Peters. ‘The great Ray McBain on the piss.’

Allessandra detects more than a note of pleasure in his voice and for the twentieth time within the last twenty minutes wonders at herself for accepting “a wee drink” from Peters at the end of the shift. The offer had been aimed at the whole office, but she had been the first to say yes and then had to listen while everyone else refused. It left her feeling a tad awkward. How could she get out of it without offending the man? As a precaution, she popped into the toilet before leaving, to freshen up her lipstick, but had actually sent a text to her sister, Sheila, and asked her to reply in an hour’s time. This meant if she was having a really bad time, she could concoct some story of a family crisis and leave.

She prays that McBain doesn’t put two and two together and come up with legs eleven. She wanted to ask him to join them but quickly realised from how long it took him to focus on her face just how deep he was in his cups.

‘Maybe he’s had some really bad news,’ she says to Peters.

‘McBain a secret drinker? Probably can’t handle the job.’ He looks like he’s just won the office sweep. He rubs his hands together. ‘You get us a drink and I’ll get us a table. Mine’s a Stella Artois.’

‘Such a gentleman,’ Allessandra forces a smile. ‘Mine’s a Stella as well and we can drink just as fine at the bar.’ They are not in the office now and different rules apply. Without waiting for a response she walks towards the bar and leans against a stool.

While Peters orders from the barman Allessandra strikes a pose that says, I’m friendly but unavailable. She crosses her feet and her arms and faces the door. If anyone sees them together like this they can’t possibly imagine there is anything going on.

Every place she’s ever worked in has been the same. Constant speculation about who is sleeping with whom, and the polis isn’t any different and she’s not about to give the gossips any fodder.

She stretches round and picks up her glass, ‘Cheers.’

‘Fancy that,’ Peters begins to crow again. ‘I thought he’d been looking a bit rough round the edges recently. That wee show as we came in explains everything.’

Allessandra sends a thought to her sister, text me now, don’t wait for an hour.

‘You think he’ll be alright?’ she asks after five minutes of silence.

‘You worried about him?’ Peters turns to face her.

‘It’s just not like him.’

‘How long have you been in the job?’

‘Long enough to know when someone’s hurting.’ She mentally finishes off her sentence with the words, ‘you patronising prick.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, Allessandra. Ray McBain has the hide of a rhino. He doesn’t hurt.’ As Peters speaks he places his right foot on the ankle-high brass pole running the length of the bar. Allessandra doesn’t bother responding. She doesn’t feel much like listening to someone bitch about her boss.

‘Not you as well,’ Peters judges her expression and slams his pint so hard on the bar some beer splashes over on to his wrist. ‘Makes me sick that no-one else can see through him. The man’s a danger to us all and tonight proves it.’

‘All it proves is that he can’t hold much booze.’

‘Exactly. Who manages to get as pissed as that within an hour of leaving the office?’

‘Something must be up.’ Allessandra feels compelled to stick up for him.

‘I’m sorry, Allessandra,’ Peters slumps against the bar. ‘I don’t mean to sound like the office bitch. And I’m sorry you ended up coming out with me on your own. You look like you’d rather be forced to dig your teeth out with a spoon than sit here any longer with me.’ He sips at his beer. ‘If you want to go home, I won’t mind.’

Allessandra looks sideways at him, fights her blushed reaction at the accuracy of his assessment and smiles. Maybe he isn’t too bad after all.

‘How about we start again?’ She swivels in her chair till she is fully facing him. ‘Looks like it’s cocktail night. And oops, I’ve got a tenner in my hand. What are you having?’

‘The closest I come to drinking cocktails is adding lemonade to my lager,’ Peters says with a grin. ‘But you have one.’

Allessandra searches the menu and asks for the cocktail with the most accessories. An hour and two repeats later and Allessandra is feeling much more disposed to the man in front of her. He isn’t quite so bad when he loosens his top button and his M&S blue-checked silk tie.

‘What’s Roberto up to these days?’ Peters asks.

‘His knees. In rich clients.’

‘My wife is bored with me,’ Peters ignores the umbrella that Allessandra threw into his drink. ‘Says I am so dependable Switzerland could run its trains by my internal clock.’

‘Dependable must be an asset in this job,’ says Allessandra hoping that this isn’t a precursor to a lame chat-up line.

‘Mmm. But there’s more to life than this job, Allessandra. And don’t you let anyone tell you differently. Just look at McBain.’

‘Och, he’s just going through a bad patch.’

‘A bad patch? Is that what you call throwing yourself at suspects and half-throttling them?’

‘He did what? When?’

‘Just the other day. The Connelly case. A young guy, Crichton. McBain went mental. I had to pull him off the lad.’

‘Je-sus.’ Allessandra considers her recent experiences with the man. His recent drunkenness, the scene at the convent with the Mother Superior, telling her to keep her mouth shut in the café. And that thing with the feathers. What was that?

Peters reads her discomfort. ‘Everything okay, Allessandra?’

‘Aye…’ Something niggles about that visit Allessandra has yet to articulate. Peters senses her slight withdrawal from the conversation.

‘Listen,’ he says, ‘If you don’t want to say anything, I’ll understand.  Ray McBain can be quite an impressive man.’

Allessandra bristles. ‘There’s nothing like that…’

‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant…’

‘There’s… no… that interview at the convent went okay.’ Actually it didn’t, and it just occurs to Allessandra why. McBain is a big man. In fact he dwarfed the tiny nun, yet he appeared frightened of her. Just what was going on in that man’s head? 

Fragments of the night before pierce the pain in my head. I’m at the kitchen table, wearing a dressing gown and clutching a cup of coffee like it’s a wonder of modern medicine. My legs are aching. It feels as if somebody gave me a kicking last night. But hey. Result. No dreams.

I can remember the taxi. The driver’s face is a blur. The crumpled up newspaper on the kitchen floor testifies to the supper I had. The swamp of regurgitated food on the carpet at the foot of the bed tells me what happened to it.

I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head sunk into the pillow. Then I woke up, God knows when. Two things struck me at the same time. I was going to be sick and I was completely disorientated. Where the fuck had the door gone? I groped my way along the wall. Too late.

The smell was horrific. I would have to get a new carpet. That would never come out. I should have cleaned it up at the time. But I just lay back down on the bed, curled up and fell fast asleep again.

Shit. And I brought a woman home. She'd been waiting for a taxi. We shared. She fell for my version of charm. The rest, as they say, is my sordid history. Mind you she didn’t stay long. Just long enough to put me to bed. I can’t remember what she looked like, can't remember her name. Can’t remember a thing about her.

My head is so sore, I can barely move it. Instead I put my hands on either side of my face and move them. Doesn’t make it any better really, but I’ll pretend it helps.

Oh no. Rossi and Peters. I met them last night. Shit. It will be all around the cop shop. Unless they don’t want to attract attention to themselves. Although Peters is a more senior officer, he’s not her boss, so it shouldn’t have any ramifications.