Douglas Lindsay - The unburied dead

They sat in the coffee shop for an hour and a half. He said nothing. He had wanted Jo to know how much he didn't want to be there. He'd stared out the window. He'd looked bored. At one point, after the mugs had been cleared away, he'd even put his head on the table. It hadn't seemed rude, not to him. He had merely been expressing himself. He thought it would have been ruder to say something.

When Alex and Eugenie had gone, Jo had torn into him. She didn't use the word co-dependent then. Worse. Much worse. They had argued in the street. People gave them a wide berth.

Later they'd kissed, they'd made up. A few days later, at any rate. They'd had sex again, but it wasn't quite as magical as the mouthwash morning. It was never quite as magical again.

Co-dependant. That was what she'd said. He called it caring and loving, a desire to see that everything was perfect in her life. And she'd called him co-dependant.

Before the end he had bought a PC, so that he could help her out with any PC difficulties she might happen across.

*

Early morning. He stands in the newsagent. Looking for a present for Jo, although he's not sure when he's going to get the chance to give it to her.

He buys presents every now and again. When she comes back he'll be ready. This one is because he's feeling guilty. Guilty about what he'd done to Jo the previous evening. He'd only wanted to talk to her. Had only wanted to sit down, find out how she'd been doing. It would have been nice to hold her, to run his fingers over her skin, to kiss her; to lie naked with her, to caress her breasts, to eat her, his lips and tongue all over her body; to slam into her, his erection aching and sore, over and over.

Had that been too much to ask? That was all, all he had wanted. Why hadn't she just said yes? It was Jo, he was sure it had been Jo. Why hadn't she just agreed to make love to him, like she had so often in the past?

He looks helplessly along an endless collection of boxes of chocolates. A glorious array of enticing packages, and every one, everything he looks at, reminds him of Jo, and reminds him of that bloodied body. He sees blood spraying into the air, he feels the knife warm and damp in his hands, he feels the soft flesh of the face splay under the force of his stabbing. It all makes him feel vaguely unwell, nauseous, but he decides it's because he hasn't had any breakfast. He wonders if he should go for a cup of tea. Looks at his watch, almost time to get to work. Plate of Cheerios would sort him out.

He can't get the vision of what he did out of his head. It was supposed to give him relief, but he is beginning to accept that maybe it wasn't Jo under that frantic knife. And he still wants to see her, but doesn't want to do to her what he did last night to that woman. That would be…unnecessary.

He looks over the middle row of books, feels a flurry of the heart, a coldness in the blood. Then he realises it's not her, not Jo, the woman with dark brown hair on the other side of the shop. She looks up, notices him staring at her, and looks away. The hair's the same. Maybe a bit shorter, curlier.

He starts to follow as the girl walks slowly out of the shop. Maybe it is Jo. Those eyes, he saw the light in those eyes. Maybe she's had plastic surgery so he wouldn't recognise her. That's the sort of thing women do.

He walks out into the cold, grey morning. Eyes narrowed. Heart beats quickly. She hasn't noticed yet as she walks along the crowded road. Too many people.

Could he do it again? So soon? The previous evening he had lost control and then staggered home to throw up, like a pathetic little child who couldn't take it. Staggered home in shock, throwing up when he walked into the house; and still the thought of it turns his stomach.

Jo steps under the bus shelter and waits. Seven or eight other people there. He follows her and stands at the side. Glances over occasionally, but she doesn't look back. Suffers the churning in his stomach, feels sick every time he thinks of what he did. Could he do it again? This time she catches his eye and he recognises that look. Fear.

Why are they all frightened of him? They don't know what he's going to do. Maybe it isn't fear. Maybe that's what he's looking for it to be. Maybe she's just got indigestion. So he smiles pleasantly and wonders which bus she's going to catch. He looks at his watch. He has to get to work, no point in arousing suspicion. There are too many people about anyway. This isn't a quiet street after dark. Morning rush hour is no time to make advances upon women, even when they ask for it. Gives her another look, which she avoids. Time to go to work.

He turns away from the bus stop, walks across the road and is nearly hit by a taxi. A horn blares.

Christmas Eve. Bloody awful morning. Had far too much to drink last night. Sat up until some time after three with Taylor, listening to all his marital difficulties. Wondered at first why he seemed reluctant to go home then, as the lager took over, he started telling me all about it, and I got what I had managed to avoid at the party on Monday night. The 'my wife's having an affair' speech. It comes to us all, and you hear it so often you become immune — until you're the poor sod in question.

Debbie's all right — not that I'd touch her with a stick — but she's a few years younger than him and that's always going to tell in the job. She's a teacher at Cathkin High, a shiny new building built on playing fields up on the hill above Cambuslang. I went there in its previous incarnation, when the only things that were shiny were the razors the pupils used to cut up the drugs. God knows what it's like now that they're in a new building that the taxpayer will still be forking out for in fifty years' time. Can't imagine it's any easier for the staff, and apparently she returns home every night with new horror stories of student brutality and didactic ineptitude. Combine that with similar tales of wretchedness from Taylor, and you can tell what fun nights they must have in. I kept thinking of the irony of him feeling guilty all year about his fling with DS Murphy, when Debbie has spent most of that time impaled on the biggest dick in town.

So I arrive this morning, ten minutes after eight, feeling like shit, looking like the inside of a football boot. Sewer breath from Hell, totally forgotten about having to buy a present for Rebecca and a night in with the station god-queen. Saw Alison on my way in — think it's going to be a regular feature — and she nearly wet herself laughing.

Cup of coffee to start the day, then a phone call downstairs. The thug brother had been released with the usual stipulations, and I was happy because it meant I could forget about it for a while. Ten minutes later we got a message from the hospital that brother number two had just unexpectedly died. Brain haemorrhage, as far as they could tell, but they weren't sure. So we have to go and get the first idiot and bring him back in. Up the charge to murder or manslaughter, whatever. Fortunately, that bit's out of my hands.

The clock has now ticked its way round to just after ten, and the office is in a state of ferment. Seventeen burglaries overnight, three reported rapes, a couple of major assaults, another ten or so minor ones, a shit load of other petty criminal activity, and in the middle of all that some guy walks in and says he saw Ann Keller not far from the cinema, sometime after eleven on Monday night. Several people are wetting themselves with excitement. Bloonsbury presumably, but it's hard to tell. He has looked this morning — if it's possible — worse than me.

I've been delegated one of the rape cases, just so a bad morning can get a little bit worse. Young Asian girl shafted by three teenagers on her way home from a party. White boys, of course. Father's going mental. Not at the three white boys — silent fury and a gun to the back of the head for them, should he ever find them — but at the mother for phoning us. There's no justice like your own justice, and you keep yourself to yourself. Anyway, I got packed off with PC Grant to start the ball rolling. Did our stuff, looked like we were investigating, and now the girl's downstairs making a statement to a couple of female officers, all us men being bastards and incapable of sympathy, such is the modern way of thinking. Fine by me, and now I'm back on the murder case, detailed to follow up various reported sightings of Ann Keller the previous evening. Most of them are futile — nearly half are downright impossible, given what we already know of her movements, and the rest are dubious. The only one to make any sort of sense was the bloke who came to the station. Everything he said tied in with what we already knew, and he came up with a good enough description of the guy we're looking for. Assuming, of course, that this bloke isn't him. These headcases move in mysterious ways. We got a photofit out of it anyway, and that'll be on the news all day. These things never actually look human, but sometimes they get results. Course, I've to spend the rest of the day following up all the other crank calls to see where it gets us, which will be nowhere.