Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

And Kyle knew in that moment exactly what that was. He no longer feared this man, no longer felt the need to give him the grudging kind of respect due to a father. And somehow that sense was being conveyed to the wiry little man who stood licking his lips, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He just needed to come at him. Just once. And Kyle could smash him, finish him for good, leave him with the taste of blood and defeat in his mouth.

‘Whit’s a this aboot? Ye’re leavin yer faither?’

Kyle shook his head. ‘You’re not my father. You’ve told me that often enough, haven’t you?’ He took a tentative step towards the man and had the satisfaction of seeing him raise his fists protectively. ‘D’you know what? I’ve been up to the registry office to collect my birth certificate so I know you’re not my father.’

Kyle was panting now, the adrenalin coursing through his body.

Just one lunge, one sweet Glasgow Kiss. .

‘Ye wee toerag!’ Kerrigan made a move towards him and in a flash Kyle had him by the wrists, forcing him back, feeling the feet slip against the linoleum floor until he had him pinned against the bedroom wall. Kyle felt the strength ebbing out of the smaller man as he held him there, forcing him to look into his eyes.

‘You-are-not-my-father,’ he said, gripping the skinny wrists in his hands and glaring into a pair of watery eyes that belonged to a stranger. And in that moment he sensed Tam Kerrigan had known it all along, years of resentment building up, making him lash out at the unsuspecting boy. And for a brief moment he felt pity for this old man, pity mixed with a feeling of disgust.

Kyle let him go and stood back.

‘You will never lay a finger on me again. D’you hear me?’ Kyle asked quietly.

Kerrigan nodded, speechless now, rubbing the places on his wrists where Kyle had grabbed him, then looking away from those piercing grey eyes that had held him every bit as effectively as those strong boxer’s hands.

But it gave him no satisfaction to see the older man flatten himself against the wall, cringing as Kyle bent to pick up his bags and head out of the door.

As he walked out of the close, wee Tracey-Ann from downstairs was sitting on a faded blanket, rocking her dolly to sleep.

‘Ur ye goin yer holidays, Kyle?’ she asked.

‘No, hen,’ he told her. ‘I’m away for good.’

‘Aw.’ Her little face crumpled for a moment as she looked at his suitcase. Then the child gave an exaggerated sigh, something she’d seen her own parent do a million times before. ‘Ta-ta, then, Kyle,’ she said and smiled up at him before turning her attention back to the dolly in her arms.

‘Ta-ta, wee yin,’ Kyle replied, swinging the duffle bag over his shoulder and heading down the street for the last time.

He knew exactly where he was going. Hadn’t he seen it often enough in nightmares? The darkness that would always swallow him up until he woke, trembling and lathered in sweat. William Lorimer had known and despised his weakness, this engulfing claustrophobia, this thing that had haunted him since childhood. They’d left him there, deep within the tunnel and run off, laughing as he’d stumbled on, going the wrong way until he was crying with fear, huddled against the wall, terrified of the train that was going to screech towards him, its huge metallic bulk crushing him to death.

He had emerged whimpering at last, the daylight never more welcome, to find the big boys had gone and he’d had to make his own way home, snot-nosed and tearful. But the incident had left its mark and Lorimer could still not enter an enclosed space without an elemental sense of terror.

The grass around the tunnel’s mouth was flattened on one side as if something like a large stone had been removed. Looking around, Lorimer saw it: rolled away against the wall, its flat top perfect for someone to sit on. Stooping down, the detective saw a glint of silver. Instinctively he drew out a handkerchief and picked it up, examining the folded piece of paper. It was the inside wrapper of a stick of chewing gum, folded and refolded then shaped into a circle. Lorimer could just imagine the tall blonde man sitting there, running the metallic paper round and round his finger. He recalled the reports from Russell’s neighbours, confirming what the police had feared: Adam was a man with problems, one fellow had said. He’s got a medical condition, another had whispered, touching the side of her head. Solly’s profile of a man with psychopathic traits seemed to be emerging from the shadows at last.

Some sixth sense told him that he was in there. Waiting.

Heart pounding, Lorimer took a step towards the tunnel’s gaping mouth then began the long walk away from daylight into darkness.

Breathe in, breathe out, he told himself, taking a gulp of sooty air and counting to four, then exhaling on a count of eight. Relax, breathe, relax, breathe, the rhythm of his inner voice soothed the trembling that lay somewhere under the surface; the trembling that threatened to break loose and overwhelm his body in a full-blown panic attack.

It was not long before the light disappeared completely and he had to feel his way forwards, one hand on the wall to his left, taking careful footsteps, making no noise except for these breaths that seemed unnaturally loud.

He stopped suddenly, the rumble from the Underground train rising, screaming like a banshee somewhere close at hand, its vibration forcing Lorimer to cringe against the wall. Then it was gone, brakes screeching and some moments of silence before it set off again, its rattle disappearing into another underground tunnel.

He could imagine them for a moment: ordinary people marching up the steps, away from the cold tiled walls curving overhead, the draught of air billowing at coats and skirts as they climbed up and up into the daylight at street level. And somehow they gave him comfort, these nameless, ordinary people. Wasn’t it his job, after all, to protect them from places like this and from the sort of danger that lurked somewhere just ahead?

Then he heard it. A single sound magnified by the darkness. A foot scraping against the metal rail.

So, Russell was in the middle of the tunnel. And coming towards him. Had he heard Lorimer’s own footfall, sensed another human being inside his hiding place?

Instinctively Lorimer reached into his pocket, feeling the shape of his mobile phone.

Then a sudden image came to him of how you lost a signal whenever the Glasgow to Edinburgh express entered a tunnel. It would be of no earthly use down here, would it? He’d be unable to call for back-up and he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. And what if Russell had a weapon of some sort?

Lorimer waited for the panic to begin but nothing happened. Instead he stood waiting, ready for the man who approached him, unseen in the blackness, his sense of hearing heightened by the loss of his sight.

On and on he could hear Russell coming, his feet sliding now on the rails, a curse muttered under his breath. And in that moment Lorimer knew that he was still an unknown factor in this man’s reckoning. If he kept perfectly still, hardly breathing at all, Russell might come right up to where he was standing.

Adam could feel the place where he had secreted the torch batteries, a space in the wall where a few bricks had been dislodged, feeling the place with his hand, a blind man searching for a familiar shape. He’d counted the number of sleepers along the track, stopping when he came to the thirteenth. Thirteen bits of timber between the gap where he slept and the place where he kept his stash: thirteen, his lucky number.

Then he screamed, an echoing wail that filled the blackness as something large and heavy fell on him, forcing him down.