Bone Machine (17 page)

Katya smiled. ‘I am good.’

She leaned into him, wrapped her hand around his arm, gave it a squeeze. ‘I am happy.’

‘Good.’

She made as if to kiss him again. From the corner of his eye, Donovan saw Peta approaching with their drinks. He pulled away
from Katya; she did likewise. Peta sat down, busied herself taking drinks and pastries from the tray.

‘You had a good time, then?’ Donovan asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Peta, then looked up at him, eyes to eyes. ‘Did you?’

She knew. About him and Katya.

Donovan looked away. ‘Yeah, fine.’ He looked around. ‘Seen Jamal on your travels?’

Peta shook her head.

‘Have to give him a ring. We should have this, then head back.’

Peta said nothing, just stirred her coffee. Katya excused herself to go to the toilet. Peta kept stirring.

‘She’s very friendly with you,’ she said without looking up.

‘She is.’

‘Anything I should know about?’

Defensiveness leaped into Donovan’s voice. ‘Like what?’

Peta looked at him, straight in the eyes. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘I think so,’ he replied.

‘Think so? That’s not enough. You better know so. Especially after what you had to say to Amar yesterday.’

Donovan sighed. ‘Look—’

‘I don’t want to know,’ she said, clanking her spoon down in the saucer with perhaps more force than she intended. ‘It’s
nothing to do with me. It’s your business. Just make sure that when it’s time to be professional, you can be.’

‘I can be.’

‘And I hope you’re taking precautions.’

Donovan looked at her, his mouth falling open.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. Think, Joe.’

Katya returned, sat down between them. She smiled at them both.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For everything you have done for me.’

‘All part of the …’ Donovan couldn’t finish the sentence. Peta was staring at him. ‘No problem,’ he said lamely.

Katya smiled again.

The Latin music in the background played on. Peta and Donovan sipped their coffee. It didn’t seem so smooth to him any more.

It was all bitterness.

DI Diane Nattrass opened the double doors of the Bacchus on High Bridge and walked into the bar. She squinted, dragging an
afterimage of the brittle evening sunlight in with her, making the hard wood and subdued lighting of the interior even darker
than it actually was. She looked around, saw him in a black-leather corner booth, drink before him. She ignored the waiting
bar staff, crossed straight to him. Stood before the table.

‘State of you,’ she said.

‘You got my message, then.’ Turnbull looked up. His speech was slurred, his body slumped. He looked like the punch-drunk loser
in an old carnival boxing tent.

Nattrass sat down next to him. ‘You’re drunk.’

Turnbull shrugged.

‘Why aren’t you at home? Why have you dragged me out on a Sunday night? You said it was urgent.’

‘’Tis.’

Nattrass looked at her watch. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’

‘Have a drink.’

‘I’m not thirsty.’

‘Then get me one.’

‘Get your own.’

Turnbull gave her what he imagined was an intimidatingly level stare but just managed to look like a drunk searching for focus.
He got up, staggered to the bar, bought himself another beer with a large whisky chaser, returned to the booth, knocked back
the whisky in one.

‘Four minutes now,’ said Nattrass.

‘Michael Nell,’ slurred Turnbull.

‘What about him.’

‘’M gonna watch him.’

Nattrass sighed. ‘We’ve got teams watching him.’

‘Yeah, but … you know what that means. They won’t be there every single second.’

‘And you will?’

Turnbull nodded.

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’ Turnbull took a swig of beer. ‘Other avenues of enquiry. Leave no stone unturned. Bollocks. Fuckin’ bollocks.
Fenton expect us to believe that? Fuckin’ media doesn’t, why should we?’

Nattrass stood, watching, waiting.

‘He’s guilty as fuck,’ said Turnbull, his voice raising slightly, attracting glances from other drinkers. He pointed a finger
at Nattrass. ‘You know it. I know it. Guilty as fuck.’

Another swig.

‘So if he is,’ said Nattrass in what she hoped was a calm and reasonable tone, ‘then he’ll make a mistake. And we’ll have
him.’

‘Make a mistake … He’ll make a fuckin’ mistake, all right.’

Something in Turnbull’s tone, a hardness, made Nattrass uneasy.

‘What are you talking about, Paul?’

Turnbull smiled. The dim lighting, the amount of alcohol in his body, turned the smile into a twisted, darkly glittering thing.
‘I’m gonna watch him. Off the clock. In my own time. An’ when he makes a mistake, when he fucks up, I’m ganna have him. Have
the cunt.’ He looked up at her. ‘An’ you’re gonna help.’

Nattrass looked into Turnbull’s bloodshot, pinwheeling eyes. She shook her head.

‘You’re a good copper, Paul. You’re my partner. Don’t do this. You get results, but you get obsessed by things. Now, I know
you’ve got problems, trouble at home—’

Turnbull snorted, picked up his drink. Nattrass stared at him.

‘Go home, Paul,’ she said. ‘Get some sleep. Spend some time with your family. Get perspective.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going home
now. I think it’s best you do too.’

Turnbull fumbled in his pocket, brought out the now-tattered picture he carried.

‘Ashley … What he did … What he did to Ashley …’

‘Go home, Paul.’ Nattrass shook her head.

Turnbull held out the photo, eyes imploring.

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

Nattrass turned and left the bar.

Turnbull sat, looking at the photo. Someone put a song on the jukebox. He didn’t recognize it, something with a beat, something
about honest mistakes. He sat, thinking hard, breathing heavily. The rhythm of the song like a quickening heart rate, driving
him along. He reached a decision.

With one last look at Ashley, he pocketed the photo, drained his glass to the bottom and stood up.

Once on his feet he nodded to himself, straightened his jacket and headed for the door.

Peta sat in the Forth, staring at the double gin and tonic on the table before her. People moved all around her, chatting,
drinking and eating. Crowding her into the corner, taking chairs from around her small table to help seat even more around
theirs. As their conviviality increased, so, too, did her sense of loneliness.

She tried to ignore it, block it all out. Concentrate on the alcohol in front of her. Her test of strength, she called it.
A
way of coping when she felt she was losing control of events in her life.

Something she had picked up from reading Aleister Crowley in her youth. Whenever he was feeling weak, Crowley would sit in
a room surrounded by his worst vices and temptations – in his case cocaine and heroin – in order to strengthen and demonstrate
the superiority of his will over his emotions. The fact that he had died a chronic drug addict Peta always ignored.

For her it was alcohol, not drugs. And she was stronger than him. Because every time she had tried this it had worked and
she had walked away actually feeling stronger.

But this time she wasn’t so sure. And she didn’t know why. Nothing particularly bad had happened. No great upheaval to trigger
this. Just a sense that somehow she was losing her grip on things. Despite her work, her studies, she felt there was something
missing from her life.

Donovan’s involvement with Katya wasn’t helping. Not because it was Joe Donovan, she told herself, but because it was unprofessional.
She had just lost one business and she wasn’t about to let Albion go down the pan also.

She had tried upping her rate of tae kwon do classes but that hadn’t helped. Just left her more tired.

And college. She had thought that getting a degree would be the answer to lots of things that had been building up inside
her. Somehow she didn’t think that was proving to be the case. She didn’t enjoy the atmosphere there at present, found it
non-conducive to studying. And then there was the Prof. She still couldn’t make him out. She liked him but felt there was
something he was hiding. The way he covered up his deformed hand made her think it was a physical manifestation of something
deeper he didn’t want seen. And then there was the Wilco gig. Had she really been too busy to go? Could she have made time
if she had wanted to?

She looked down at the table again. The gin and tonic was beckoning to her. Bubbles making their slow way up the centre, bursting
on the ice, under the slice of lime. She believed she could hear its inviting effervescence above the roar of the drinkers,
the thump of the jukebox. She could almost taste it: the cold sharpness exploding in her mouth, the icy aftereffect slipping
down her throat, cooling her system, the mild buzz tickling her forehead like a pleasurable head massage, the hint of juniper
berries and aromatics tantalizingly just out of reach of her taste buds, all urging her to take another mouthful, do it again.
And again.

But she wouldn’t. Because she was stronger than that.

Stronger.

And yet. It looked so inviting, the bubbles, the condensation on the glass …

‘Hello.’

She felt a hand on her shoulder, turned suddenly, looked up, startled out of her reverie.

Jill Tennant was standing before her, pint in hand, smiling down.

‘Didn’t think I’d find you here. Didn’t think it would be your sort of place.’

Peta looked around, noticing for the first time that the majority of the people in there were students. She shrugged, not
knowing what to say.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’

Peta shook her head. ‘No, just … nothing. Sitting here.’

Jill glanced around to where her friends were looking for seats. ‘Come and join us.’

Peta looked at them. Some she recognized from her course, some she had seen around campus. All of them younger than her, all
seemingly without the cares she was carrying.

‘I couldn’t. You’re with your friends.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You’re my friend as well. Come on.’

Jill held out her hand. Peta looked at her drink, then back to Jill. The girl’s eyes were so honest, no hidden agenda. She
liked Peta, wanted to be her friend.

Peta smiled. ‘OK.’ She stood up, picked up her bag.

‘Don’t forget your drink,’ said Jill.

‘I’ll get something else,’ said Peta. ‘I didn’t fancy it really.’

Peta went to join Jill and her friends. The gin and tonic left alone slowly lost its sparkle, turned into flat, tasteless
liquid.

Michael Nell had had enough.

He knew they were watching him, shadowing his every move. Turning around quickly when he was walking, glancing too fast into
doorways and windows. All the way home from the police station, all last night in the pub. People looking away too quickly,
pretending to look somewhere else. He could feel them doing it. Even when he couldn’t see them. From behind, at the side.
All around.

Every eye like an insect. An ant or cockroach crawling across his body. Tickling. Itching. Unnerving. Making him want to scratch,
pull the skin red raw, cleanse it.

He didn’t know who they were, but he had a good idea. Police. Press. Even other students. All wanting to see him for themselves.

The pervert.

The murderer.

Wanting to know where he is at all times, what he’s doing. To make sure he doesn’t do it again. Or if he does, be there to
stop him. Or just to capture the moment. Or to make sure it doesn’t happen to them.

One day, one night. He couldn’t take it much longer. All the eyes on him.

His father wanted nothing to do with him, told him he
was scum, that he’d always known something like this would happen to him. Nell had wanted to tell him the apple doesn’t fall
far from the tree, but he hadn’t dared. He knew what would have happened to him if he had.

So he had said nothing. Took it.

And now the eyes. All on him. His skin crawling with insect feet.

Even Emma, his new girlfriend, who was always up for a bit of fun, recoiled from his touch. It was one thing to enjoy deviant
sex, another to be pawed by a murderer. She had given him the good to see you stuff, the stand by you, I knew you were innocent,
never doubted it stuff. Taken him to the pub where his friends had joined in. But he had seen them, looking at him when they
thought he wasn’t aware of it. Scrutinizing his actions: how he holds a bottle, how he smokes a fag. His smile, his body language.
Gauging for themselves his innocence, his guilt.

He had wanted to scream at them, shout. But he hadn’t. He had thanked them for sticking by him. Told them he really appreciated
it. What their friendship meant to him.

Cunts.

And now there was Emma, sat on the edge of the bed. Looking vulnerable, alone. Looking at him with ill-disguised fear in her
eyes. Wondering whether he was going to touch her.

Kill her.

Set to run if he did.

He wanted to grab her. Make her listen. Tell her the truth, tell her everything.

But he didn’t. His head was pounding. He wanted to rip his own skin off, scour away the insect looks, claw at his face until
nothing remained on the surface, no one was left underneath. Lose his identity, be reborn in blood. Take the crawling, maddening
pain away.

He gave a resigned sigh.

‘’M goin’ out.’

‘Where?’ She could barely keep the relief from her voice.

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Just out.’

‘D’you want me to go home?’ The first time he had heard hope in her voice all night.

‘No, you can stay here. Do what you like.’

He saw the hope turn to fear by the time he reached the door.

‘Where are you going?’ An edge of hysteria in her voice.

You mean, who are you going to hurt? Who are you going to kill? He almost spat the words at her. But he didn’t have the energy.
All he had was pain. And a weariness beyond sleep.

‘Out.’

He slammed the door behind him.

Walked away.

Peta threw her head back and laughed. It felt like the first time she had done that for ages, a real roar of pure pleasure.

The students had been talking about their lecturers and peers with a mixture of both warmth and wit in a way that only those
with their futures ahead of them could. Some had tried to affect worldly airs but Peta wasn’t fooled. She knew they were just
shields thrown up to hide their fears of being away from home for the first time. Then one of Jill’s mates, Josh, had made
a statement about a mutual colleague that had topped everyone else’s. The only response had been to laugh. Despite, or perhaps
because of, the events on campus, they had laughed. Long and hard. It was the most life-affirming thing Peta had done in months.

They were getting drunk, she noticed, while she stayed with Diet Coke. She didn’t mind. Just the energy, the good humour,
of the group was rubbing off on her. They made
her feel welcome. Didn’t mention her age, didn’t exclude her from the conversation because she wasn’t as fast as them on some
of the cultural references, because she didn’t watch
The OC
or
Hollyoaks
. And Peta for her part made no attempt to seem younger or hipper than she was. It worked; it was a good accommodation. She
felt relaxed. She felt happy.

Peta noticed Jill looking at her. She turned, smiled.

‘Can I ask you something?’ said Jill.

‘Fire away.’

‘Why do you not drink?’

All the good humour of the previous two hours evaporated as Peta felt like she had moved back to square one. Her imaginary
good time dissipated, reality slapping her around the face like a hangover. She opened her mouth to give what she thought
was her usual defensive answer, saw Jill’s face and stopped.

Jill was looking at her with such openness, such trust, that she couldn’t say what she had been about to say. The question
had been asked with no malice, no judgement. Just a genuine enquiry. Peta felt she had to give an honest answer.

‘I’m only asking,’ Jill went on, seemingly worried in case she had offended Peta, ‘because my sister doesn’t drink either.’