Born Evil (16 page)

‘Right, you Scotch cunt. If I do you the favour of sparing you a burial, will you promise me you’ll go back to Scotland and never, ever return?’

‘I p-promise,’ Billy stuttered.

Mickey smiled at his obvious distress. ‘And will you also promise never, ever to contact my sister or her son again?’

‘I’ll d-do whatever you say, Mickey.’

‘Well, I’m gonna give you a reprieve then. Not ’cause I like ya. I’m doing it because you’re so fucking worthless, you’re not worth doing bird for. But I’m telling you now, Billy, if you ever break your word, I personally am gonna kill ya, do you understand me?’

‘Y-yes Mickey. Thank you.’

Gesturing to Steve to hold one end of the rope, Mickey walked round and round the tree, securing Billy to the trunk.

‘Right, Billy boy, I’ve tied you up. If someone finds you, you’ll live. If they don’t, you’ll starve or freeze to death, and be munched on by foxes.’

Billy McDaid felt weak, very weak, and knew that if he was left tied to this tree, he wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

‘Please untie me! I promise I’ll do everything you say. You’ll never see me again.’

‘I wanna word,’ Steve said, pulling Mickey aside. ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘we’ve taught him a lesson, but we can’t leave him here like this. We might as well have just fucking shot him. No one will find him in time, Mick, and what with the hole I’ve just dug, we’ll have the old bill all over us.’

Mickey smiled. ‘Do you think I don’t know that, Steve? Do you think I’m stupid or something? I’ve no intention of leaving him tied up. I’m just teaching the cunt a lesson that he’ll never forget.’

A look of relief spread over Big Steve’s face. ‘Thank fuck for that. Come on, Mick, let’s get out of here now. I’m soaking wet and starving.’

Walking back over to McDaid, Mickey smiled in satisfaction.

‘My mate Steve reckons I should untie you. Now, I’m not giving you your clothes back, ’cause you look better naked. When you find your way out of this jungle, Billy, and your little cock goes on display to the general public, I want you to tell whoever finds you that you’ve been out on a stag night and got stripped off as a prank. As for your teeth and the bruises, tell ’em you were pissed and fell over.’

Billy nodded. He felt so ill now, he was almost unable to speak.

Pulling a wad of notes out of his pocket, Mickey counted out fifty quid and handed it to him. ‘That’s your train fare. I want you to take the first train back to Glasgow. And if I find out you haven’t, I’m gonna cut your little cock off and shove it down your throat. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Billy said faintly.

Mickey cut the rope and laughed loudly as Billy fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. Unable to resist one last kick, he aimed it deep into Billy’s stomach.

‘That’s from Debbie,’ he said, as he picked up the rope and any other evidence they may have left.

Noticing just how weak and ill Billy looked, Steve was still worried. ‘I’m telling ya, Mick, he ain’t gonna make it out of this forest if we leave him here. Let’s get him dressed, help him back to the car and drop him off at the nearest station.’

As much as Mickey would have liked to see McDaid lost forever in the forest, dying a slow painful death and eventually eaten by anything hungry, he knew that what Steve was saying made sense. Mickey had big plans for his own future and doing bird for a piece of shit wasn’t part of them.

‘Get dressed,’ he growled at Billy, as he chucked his shit-stained jeans at him.

The walk back to the car took ages. As Mickey finally started the engine, Steve bundled McDaid into the back seat.

‘He ain’t looking too good, is he?’ Mickey said, stating the obvious. Part of him was still buzzing with adrenaline. The other part of him was worried that he had gone a bit over the top. He could certainly do without Billy croaking it. He and Steve would be in Shit Street if that were to happen.

Steve felt anxious as he glanced at their prisoner. ‘I think we should stop at a McDonalds on the way, Mick. Let’s get some grub down him and some fluids. Hopefully, that’ll liven him up a bit.’

Mickey smiled. Only Steve could come out with that idea. Food was his answer to everything.

After a short food stop, where they tried to shovel a Big Mac, chips and milkshake into Billy’s mouth, Mickey headed for the nearest tube station.

‘Right,’ he said, as he noticed the Central Line sign. ‘Time for you to return to your native Glasgow, Billy boy. Chop-chop, out ya get, son.’

Thankful to be alive, Billy stumbled from the car.

As Mickey and Steve drove away that day, both of them were absolutely sure that they’d seen the last of Billy McDaid.

Unfortunately for them, they were wrong.

‘NOW COME ON
, Charlie, put your blazer on for Mummy, there’s a good boy.’

‘Don’t wanna wear it,’ came the sulky reply.

‘Don’t start, Charlie. You know you have to wear it.’

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t.’

Exasperated, Debbie picked up his school bag, grabbed him by the hand, and with the blazer slung over her arm, dragged him out of the door and towards the infants’ school he’d just started attending.

As she waved goodbye to him at the school gates, she couldn’t help but notice all of the other children playing happily amongst themselves. Instead of joining them, Charlie stood alone against a wall, a sullen expression plastered across his face.

‘That child will be the death of me,’ she mumbled as she headed back home to begin her day’s chores.

After she’d done the washing and ironing, Debbie sat in the garden for a fag and a coffee break. With the sun shining brightly, she tilted her head to face the warmth of its rays and lapsed into one of her daydreams.

It was just over eight months since she had hobbled out of the hospital door on crutches. Her life had changed so much since then. Her physical injuries had virtually disappeared, and apart from a slight limp, there was no evidence of the brutal attack she’d endured. Mentally, she was still suffering, though. The slightest noise or sudden movement would make her jump out of her skin. An unexpected knock at the door, especially at night-time, would send her into a paranoid frenzy. But worst of all were the nightmares, which came every time she shut her eyes. Many a night she would wake up drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably.

Although the nights were a problem, by day Debbie was the happiest she’d been in ages. She absolutely adored the little house that Mickey had found her and had made good friends with a neighbour, Susan, who had a teenage daughter. The relationship between her and her mum had never been better either. Debbie’s ordeal seemed to have bridged the gap between them and brought back the closeness they’d shared years ago.

Peter’s pomposity still grated on her, but Debbie could tell that he really loved her mum, and if June was happy, that was good enough for her.

Debbie was closer than ever to her brother Mickey. He was her hero, her saviour. She’d been overjoyed the day he’d come round to tell her that she wouldn’t be hearing from Billy any more.

‘I’ve sorted McDaid out, sis. He won’t bother you or Charlie ever again.’

‘Thanks, Mick,’ she’d said, relief flooding through her. ‘What about the court case? Will I still have to give evidence?’

‘You can forget about that now. I doubt he’d have attended anyway, and me sorting it out saves you from going through all that shit.’

Mickey had rarely mentioned Billy since that day and neither had she. Sometimes she wondered what had happened to him. She didn’t think her brother was capable of murder but would’ve loved to have known if Billy had suffered, just like she had. She’d asked Mickey once but he’d given nothing away.

‘Look, Debs, let’s not talk about that cunt, eh? Believe me, it’s sorted and that’s all you need to know.’

Just lately, Mickey had been spending more and more time abroad on business, so he’d asked his mate Steve to look after his interests, which included her.

‘When I ain’t about, Debs, Big Steve’ll be popping round to see if you’re OK.’

Debbie was a bit put out at first when the giant skinhead kept appearing on her doorstep, but as the months passed, she got used to his visits and looked forward to them more and more. Underneath his thuggish appearance Big Steve was a gentleman, and Debbie felt safe and secure, knowing he was only a phone call and five minutes away. He was a funny bastard as well and, once the ice was broken between them, regularly had her in hysterics with his deadpan sense of humour.

Charlie hated Big Steve coming round. ‘Horrible man, Mummy, don’t let him in.’

‘Don’t be so silly, Charlie, he’s your Uncle Mickey’s best friend,’ Debbie said each time he complained.

With Billy out of her life, Charlie was Debbie’s only real headache. Her son’s behaviour seemed to go from bad to worse. Driven mad with him under her feet all day, she was relieved when he’d finally started school. It was guilt that made her succumb to his every whim when he was home. After what he’d been through with his father, she couldn’t help but spoil him. A few months ago she’d taken some unwanted advice from her brother. Mickey had paid her a flying visit and Charlie had been acting up as usual, refusing to eat his dinner and chucking it all over the floor.

Pulling her to one side, Mickey had handed her the business card of a child psychiatrist. ‘Look, please don’t think I’m interfering but this geezer’s meant to be good, sis. If you don’t get Charlie sorted now, you’re gonna regret it. You’ve got to do it, for his sake. Book an appointment. I’ll pay for it, Debs.’

Not overjoyed with the idea of her son needing a shrink, Debbie stuck the card and the money in her purse and forgot about it. It was Charlie kicking and spitting at an old lady on a bus ride home from Romford that jogged her memory.

The appointment was booked for a week later. ‘Nooooo, nooooo, nooooo!’ Charlie screamed as he was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the waiting room of the clinic in Hornchurch. But, to Debbie’s amazement, as soon as he entered the premises, her son turned from monster to cherub.

‘Hello, Charlie. My name’s Dr Foster.’

‘Hello, Dr Foster,’ Charlie replied angelically.

The doc let him play with some toys and gently asked him a few questions. Charlie answered every single one, intelligently and politely. Trying a different tactic, the psychiatrist handed Charlie a crayon and some paper and asked him to draw pictures. Charlie liked drawing and was happy to oblige. Dr Foster then told Debbie to pay at reception and to book a follow-up appointment with his secretary.

Four appointments and a hundred and sixty quid later, Debbie realised that she was wasting Mickey’s money and her time. Every time Charlie entered Dr Foster’s clinic he changed from little bastard to little cherub. At the end of the fourth visit, the doc pulled Debbie aside.

‘To be honest, Miss Dawson, I don’t think Charlie needs our help. He’s a very bright, stable, cheerful little boy, and although I’m quite happy to keep on taking your money, I can assure you, with my thirty years of experience, I consider that there is nothing wrong with your son whatsoever.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Debbie said, taking Charlie by the hand.

Five minutes down the road, the cherub was gone and in its place was the bastard.

‘I want McDonald’s,’ Charlie demanded.

‘No, not today, Charlie. Mummy’s cooking you a nice roast dinner. You can have McDonald’s at the weekend.’

‘Nooooo,’ he screamed, pulling away from her hand and sitting firmly on the ground.

‘Get up off that pavement now,’ Debbie said. Charlie had as usual attracted the attention of passers-by.

‘You’re not being a naughty boy for your mummy, are you?’ asked a little old lady.

‘Cunt, cunt, cunt,’ Charlie said, smiling at her.

‘I am so sorry,’ Debbie said apologetically.

Wondering if her hearing aid had been deceiving her, the little old lady walked away in shock.

‘Get up now!’ Debbie screamed at her son.

‘No. If you don’t get me McDonald’s, I’m gonna run in the road,’ he said, still smiling. Debbie knew that she was making a rod for her own back by giving in to him all the time. Her mother, Peter, her brother … they’d all said the same thing. Deciding it was high time she made a stand, she lifted up the kicking and screaming child and half dragged him to the nearest bus stop.

Now, Charlie was not a child to appreciate being thwarted. Deciding to pay his mother back in the worst way that he could, he flashed her his angelic smile.

‘Sorry, Mummy. Put me down now?’

Debbie was as pleased as punch that, for once, she’d stood her ground and won.

‘Will you promise to be a good boy?’ she asked gently as she put him on his feet.

‘Yes, Mummy.’

Charlie stood next to her, waiting to seize his opportunity. He wasn’t stupid, he had no intention of killing himself, but he needed to teach silly Mummy a lesson. He watched the cars trundle past and waited for the appropriate moment to make his move. Then, quick as a ferret, he darted into the road.

‘No, Charlie, no!’ Debbie screamed as she chased after him.

Ten minutes later she was sitting in McDonald’s, watching the little fucker munch happily away on a cheeseburger and fries.

‘Want a chip, Mummy?’ he asked innocently.

Debbie shook her head. She was still shaking from shock. Deciding that she couldn’t face going back to the bus stop, she called one of the staff over. ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you but my little boy just nearly got run over. It’s made me feel ill. Would you be able to call me a cab, please?’

After putting Charlie to bed that evening, Debbie reached for the bottle of wine that had lain unopened in her refrigerator for the past week. She felt a complete and utter mental wreck.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Charlie lay in bed so hyped up that he was having difficulty sleeping. He smiled to himself. His mum, nan, uncle, the doc – they all thought they could work him out, but they had no chance. Only he knew how his mind ticked and he intended to keep it that way. Today had been a great day. He liked his visits to the silly doctor. As for his mum, her face had been a picture when he’d run into the road. Giggling, he stood on his bed. Laughing hysterically, he bounced up and down.