The long knives, p.26
The Long Knives, page 26
I consider this truism: all those meaty, mouthy proponents of freedom, battling to death for their right to be enslaved by corporate algorithms.
— It was obvious that he wanted to have sex with me. But since the French Alps incident, I’ve never found this to have much appeal. I had learned the tactics of dissociation, of being able to mentally remove yourself from the horrendous event. It involves deploying a very similar tactic to what people do naturally in the realm of dreams, to move from first-person participant to third-person observer during the attack. It wasn’t successful back then.
She stops.
I let the silence hang.
She eventually steps in. — One of them in that gondola knew what to say: the threatening whisper, the laugh; worse, the subversive caress that your body responded to, pulling you back into that horrific present.
She has moved the subject matter away from the troublesome Gayle and back to them, the people we had to deal with.
— The smart ones are the most dangerous. They know exactly how much elitism the white, middle-class patriarchy, specifically, has sponsored: imperialism, the division of labour. How they fuck us all. Then there’s the imbecile apologists, genuinely blind as to their role in maintaining this on behalf of their masters. Those are the ones who look on in bemused confusion when you take your revenge; those who have why etched on their stupid faces, even as you remove their pride, she explains, building up momentum.
We’re going back over old ground, but it’s a tale she needs to tell. We both know that it sometimes takes more than one visit to the toilet to get rid of all the shit.
— Erskine was once an upstaging pantomime star. Not in the league of Rikki Fulton or Alan Cumming, either of whom could deploy a rubber-faced gesture that would send the crowd into hysterics, while the bemused actor in the foreground performed a sober piece, looking concerned that the audience was not taking their big moment seriously enough. Then they would look round …
DS Erskine. Far from the worst, but an associate of evil and not just on a summer job when the theatre work had dried up. Any accomplice of Piggot-Wilkins is an adversary of mine. And, most certainly, they are an enemy of hers.
— I saw many of his shows, following his career even as I developed my own, once we returned home from that cold place. The police force, the stage, back to the police force again. I thought he might have been the innocent party in that desperate trio. That he was coerced into setting it up. There was a time I emotionally separated him from the other two. I even laughed, retrospectively, thinking about some of his stage jokes. But then I heard about his antics from Freda Miras. She was a Hungarian prostitute he went with, who was a pro bono case of mine. Behind his jovial facade, there was a blemishing darkness, subsequently alluded to by his colleagues Amanda Drummond and Ray Lennox.
Ray Lennox. That troublesome cop. Without even being fully aware that I exist, he seems to be getting closer to me, sensing my presence. He’s Sally’s client, her patient, yet he crops up first with Gareth Horsburgh, and then, completely out of place, on Billy Lake’s boat in Essex. And, in his most potentially hazardous intervention of all, that Glasgow hospital ward with Lauren Fairchild.
And this is the man whose name was the last word that Gulliver spoke.
Lennox.
I do not believe in coincidences. I believe in energy fields. Lennox is at the centre of all this and so far hasn’t been able to join up the dots. But he will. He’s certainly far more troublesome than Wallingham, whose modus operandi I found out from Lake, whom I expect to unwittingly do the dirty work there. The idiot, Lake, sack-of-rocks dumb, deluded enough to see himself as some kind of criminal mastermind, yet wondering in confused aggression at our last session who grassed him up. The answer was: he did it to himself, by spilling all to me, the fool. Of course, neither he nor Wallingham will ever know this but at least one of them will pay.
— Freda showed me the marks, Sally is now focused on me, — told me his specialism was burning parts of her with a cigarette. That would get him off. But it was never enough. On each visit, the cigarette butt had to blaze longer on the skin. Erskine was as damaged as the others, she says, ice in her gaze.
I let her meander, as she loves to do this, particularly as she has to be so structured with her clients. But there are a few facts that I need to know in order to write our story. It’s all in the details. — How would you compare Erskine to the other two?
— I suppose that after Gulliver and Piggot-Wilkins, he was something of a soft target. But taking out a brutal henchman of the patriarchal state is a valid response, is it not?
I nod in agreement. Thinking of Roya. Letting my hate smoulder. I ought to have finished off Piggot-Wilkins while I had the chance. Taken the cock he put into my sister, like the hand he took from me. That would have been justice. That’s what Sally must be made to fully understand, to paraphrase herself: Lennox, no matter how benign or well intentioned he seems, is the servant of a corrupt state that exists to prevent that justice.
She hesitates for a full minute, before reciprocating to the nod. She knows my thoughts. In that beat, I can see the stern glint in her eye that perhaps says: you were once part of that same state apparatus. And of course, this is correct. In the media, my job, just as much as that of the police, was to protect the wealthy and their property. I was just in the propaganda wing of the elite supremacist movement. Past tense. — Then Ray Lennox came in and told me about Gillman, she continues, — and specifically, a little trip to Thailand. Not as bad as Erskine, but his partner and an easy touch. Our next target.
— Thanks, I tell her, trying to press the stop switch, nimble despite my heavy hand. I’m pleased to manage to execute so deft an operation. When I think of the number of phones I’ve wrecked, great strides have been made …
I unscrew my hand.
She looks at the stump for only a few seconds, before lifting up her skirt, and pulling down her panties. — Make me care, she asks, as I apply the gel to my wrist. When they removed the hand, they stitched the skin over the protrusion. Many women like this; a big boner which never loses its power.
I’m slow, as I work it in, but relentless, as I build up the rhythm. Soon I hear her breathing change, then soft groans spill from her. Watching her shine, I sniff her hair. How I long to kiss her mouth. But this I cannot do. That is not allowed. I rub up against her leg as I pump her with my love wrist. A scarlet mist in front of my eyes as my cock explodes my jiz against her, always before she achieves her own brutal ecstasy. Though spent, I must pump on. I feel her grip me with her pelvic muscles. All I can do is listen to her moans, as she begs me for more force, her face already screwed up as my forearm smashes in and out of her cunt. — Don’t stop, she pleads.
— We will never stop, I whisper in her ear.
When she does fold in ecstasy, my arm is sore at the elbow. I pull it gently from her aching hole.
We lie still, next to each other. She says to me, — I’m not sure I’m capable of love, but what I feel for you is as close as I’m likely to get, and I feel her grab my hand in hers as my stump, reddened, hangs on my other side.
Gillman is getting closer. I saw him follow the policewoman Drummond. But Ray Lennox is also. Of course, I can’t tell her that. She’s become attached to him. A bit like another mutual friend, of sorts, the one the detective and I share. But we’ll take care of them.
All of them.
No, we do not intend to stop this yet.
I’m sorry, Raymond Lennox. You’re not the worst of them. But you are one of them.
37
The last thing he intends to do is to take up Gillman’s offer and hit the Repair Shop. He circles back to Leonora’s flat, again finding it empty, then realises he’s right in the neighbourhood for the grim Southside watering hole. It does seem important, though, to be with his Serious Crimes colleagues at this time. And there is a bit of guilt in wishing death on Gillman.
That was extreme. A good kick up the arse would suffice. Those cunts are all you’ve got. How desperate is that?
So Ray Lennox trudges through the dark, inhospitable city. Tries to imagine what it would be like living somewhere else. Edinburgh is in his DNA, but he thinks of it as a cold, absentee father who’s never really loved him. Doesn’t put itself out for him. He supposes that all cities must be that way. But Edinburgh appears the truculent Christmas drunk who sits sadly at the bar, painfully professing love for the children it never sees. The two-gram loudmouth in the toilet cubicle with the grandiose plans that will turn into self-loathing as the cruel light floods in. Perhaps the city is disabling anything good in him. Eating him alive from the inside, leaving that hollow shell. And now he is going to a pub he regards as the capital’s second worst, just behind his local, run by the mercurial Jake Spiers.
The Repair Shop is practically empty, except one corner where the Serious Crimes boys hang out. They are more tightly packed round the bar than usual. Holding on for dear life like drowning men on a piece of driftwood; Gillman, Harkness, Notman, Arnott, Harrower, and even the more reconstructed Inglis and McCorkel. They too seem to acknowledge the enormity of the situation. The most furtive is the suspended Tom McCaig, who is almost literally crying into his whisky. — Ah thoat thir wis mair than one tent, he says, sweeping his tangled grey hair back from a lined face.
We are servants of a state that can’t even protect us. This should not happen. We feel weak, exposed. This is a new force, perhaps a harbinger of things to come. It has no fear of any consequences. It won’t stop.
Lennox looks at the shattered Gillman, thinks about how he’s never got on with him, since he first met him as a young officer. Veteran cops often disdain raw recruits. It’s the way of the world. Gillman, though, possesses a boorish nastiness, unmitigated by the swaggering bonhomie displayed by the likes of other misanthropes he’s worked with, such as Bruce Robertson or Ginger Rogers. Gillman exudes a pure loathing, both sly and overt, for anything he doesn’t like. And it was plain from the off he didn’t vibe on Ray Lennox.
Now the death of Erskine seems to have unhinged Dougie Gillman further. Vengeful talk spills from his mouth. Not carelessly. It is frighteningly focused. He’s nurturing his own hatred, trying to find its depth and range. — I’m gaunny kill some cunt for this. He knocks back his whisky, and stamping his foot, promptly turns and leaves the bar, as though he has just decided who. McCaig visibly shivers, looks relieved as Gillman passes him.
— Dinnae let him go, Ally Notman says to the assembled company, while making no move to restrain his departing colleague.
— I’ll go after him, Lennox says, leaving the pub. His exit is too swift for him to register any comment of his fellow officers, but he can hear their thoughts crystallise as an incredulous, communal energy, following him out into the wet streets: Lennox is helping Gillman. However, Ray Lennox doesn’t seek to engage with Douglas Gillman, instead tracks him through the dark coldness of the city.
Trailing into town down Nicolson Street, Lennox can’t believe that’s he’s struggling to keep up with Gillman’s unrelenting rolling gait, mysteriously pacy from a man whose fitness levels are so evidently low. Takes it as a sign of his own decline: he needs to get back in the gym.
The night draws further in, with Gillman’s venomous swagger the crackling force that propels him from seedy bars to the knocking shops they called saunas. Pursuing him through town is the most unpleasant and lonely of undertakings, even for a seasoned stake-out man like Lennox. Finally Gillman stops outside a tenement block in Marchmont, which he looks up and down. Then he moves across the street to survey it from that vantage point. Lennox knows the flat, not that far from Trudi’s; it belongs to Amanda Drummond.
When she emerges, wearing a knee-length coat and jeans with flat shoes, heading off into the night, Gillman ducks into the next stair. He then follows her down the street, and across the Meadows. Lennox’s suspicions are confirmed. There is nobody else around this time. No Glover-resembling friend.
You weren’t imagining it. It’s true. The other woman she was with earlier is irrelevant. It’s her he’s focused on. Gillman is stalking Drummond.
In the central Meadows walkway, he catches up with Gillman, who has maintained a twenty-metre distance between himself and Drummond. — Dougie, Lennox whispers in harsh urgency.
Gillman stops, turns round to see Lennox, then whiplashes to watch Drummond’s back receding. Regards Lennox again. — What you wantin?
— You’re stalking her? Amanda?
— No. I’m staking her out. Are you stalking me?
— No, Lennox says, a little wrong-footed by the counter-assertion. — I went after you when you left the bar. You weren’t in a great frame of mind.
— So you’ve followed me since then? Fuck off, Lennox!
— I saw you in pursuit of her the other day. I had to be sure, and now I am. You’re stalking Amanda. Why?
— I telt you, I’m staking her oot.
— Why?
— Let’s just say ah started tae notice things aboot Drummond and her associates. Gillman’s chest expands in pomp.
— What associates?
— Dae yir ain hamework, Lenny.
— Dougie, listen. Amanda’s a colleague. A fellow officer. Surely you must see how fucked up this is?
But Gillman seems not to hear him. — Aw these fucking weirdos and they vindictive bitches, he tells Lennox, — they’re closing ranks. Those fucking degenerates, who dinnae ken what they are: they’re taking ower, Lenny! Watch them!
— Is this aboot the fucking promotion? Lennox snaps.
— It’s aboot everything, Gillman spits back as some creature rustles in the tree above them, close enough for both men to briefly look up. — If you’re a gadge who feels trapped in a bird’s body, have the fucking baws tae get rid ay yir fucking baws. Get them whipped off and have a fanny built. Dinnae prance aboot lassies’ lavies and lassies’ nicks wi your cock hingin out, tellin every cunt you’re a fucking bird. What dae ye think ay that shite? he demands.
Lennox is almost inclined to snigger at Gillman’s imagery, but then he thinks of Fraser. — I couldn’t give a fuck about the gender of others, Dougie. How the fuck is stalking Drummond working this case?
— And you’re working it poncing aboot doon in London? What have you got on Norrie’s murderer?
— What the fuck have you got?
Gillman pulls out his phone, fiddles around with it. Produces an old newspaper article. It’s the Ms X one, that Lennox was sent by Sebastian Taylor.
Lennox reads. Looks up at Gillman. — And? Student bird raped by these snobby cunts in a French ski resort.
— Guess who the fuckers were?
Lennox lets out a long breath. — Well, like you, my money is on Gulliver and Piggot-Wilkins, but we still don’t have evidence to connect them to that holiday in the Alps. Piggot-Wilkins won’t talk and is being protected by the high-heid yins, and Gulliver can’t talk …
— Aye. Well?
Lennox stares at Gillman, tries to work out where he’s going with this. — You’re saying that Amanda is Ms X? That she was raped by them as a student, and subsequently killed Gulliver and castrated Piggot-Wilkins?
— Aye.
— She investigated Gulliver! Questioned him.
— So fuck? That entitled little rapist cunt probably monstered hundreds ay wee student birds. Think he’d recognise one in a ski lift fae fifteen year ago?
— No way.
— Aye way. She was on a school trip tae France back then. It included the Alps.
— You’ve been secretly investigating her on the basis of that pish?
A couple walk towards them, then sensing the bad energy, veer off towards the edge of the path, quickening their pace as they move past. Gillman looks at Lennox, his teeth bared. — It’s fucking Drummond, he declares. — She’s involved in this!
— You’re nuts. You are totally fucking losing it, Lennox spits. — I know you were close to Erskine, but get a grip.
The chubby finger of Douglas Gillman waves at him. — Because you ride her you’re blind to what’s gaun on, Lenny!
Lennox’s brows fly north. Has this cunt been stalking you as well? How does he ken aboot –
— Didnae like that, did ye? Gillman sings in triumph. — No very professional, and he mimics the schoolmarm voice Drummond generally deploys using that word.
— You ken fuck all, Dougie.
— Enlighten ays then, Gillman challenges, crowned by the silver crescent of a moon cutting through murky clouds. Then, in face of Lennox’s silence, — See, what you dinnae realise, Lenny, Gillman prods his own chest as he looks at him in appeal, — is ah’m fightin for ma life here! What does the likes ay me dae eftir Serious Crimes? he asks. — First thing the new Chief Super does is implement the staffing review. The Night ay the Long Knives and guess whae’s the first cunt Chief Super Amanda Drummond recommends for his jotters? Numero uno oan her hit list for the Roger Waters is none other than Doogie the Dinosaur, and Gillman takes a peevish stage bow.
— She’s no even got the fuckin job yet, ya paranoid cunt!
— See who wins at they interviews the morn, Lenny, Gillman snorts. — It’ll no be you or me: tell ye that for nowt.
The morn …
Ray Lennox knows the interviews are tomorrow. But this information, lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, hasn’t consciously concerned him at all. Considers what is going on in his personal and professional life. Just how irrelevant the promotion is to him. Steps forward, squares up to Dougie Gillman, matches his demented stare. — You’re a fucking nut. Seriously, back the fuck off here.
