Revenge

Complexion greasy and grey, like a week-old mushroom.  Shaking and unsure whether to go outdoors or stay in. This is the time after the binge and the sickness. Resolve weakening with the increasing physical ability to keep down a drink. That way leads back to sickness though, and maybe death. Much as he craves oblivion from his present horrors, he’s not brave enough for that.

He plays tricks on his mind.

Maybe just a few ‘halves’ would cure these terrible blues, then he could face the day better, but, he knows too well from experience that it doesn’t work that way. He would drink on into oblivion and a wasted sleep and have to face the same thing all over again until sickness ‘saved’ him. Only this time it may not. When drunk and thoroughly depressed by it he would swallow paracetamols, not so much a suicide attempt, more an attempt to knock himself out. The hope being that he’d sleep for maybe enough time for the alcohol to leave his system, thirty-six hours he had once been told, and he’d miraculously awake feeling bright and breezy. This had worked on two occasions before, though not using paracetamol, but Temazepam left over from his Dads last days in the hospice where he’d died. He’d taken a handful each time and they had knocked him out for about a day and a half and, indeed, he had awoken feeling fine enough not to continue the binge. 

That was then, and this was now.

He gazed sorrowfully out of the window. Everything he looked at depressed him. Even the sea, which he loved. He had to somehow get through this dark, bleak day until eight tonight when he’d take a drink to get him off to sleep. Hopefully he’d feel better tomorrow.

Drink only eased your blues in a very temporary fashion; ultimately you were faced with hem head on. Lying here in his bleakness he tried to shake his worries and his memories, especially those – out of his head. Literally; shaking his head every time they approached his consciousness. Like you do when you’re trying to avoid remembering something embarrassing you may have done.

To give himself succour he tried to concentrate on the reason why he was here, back in Scotland after all these years – twenty years away – and now he was back. He tried to strengthen his resolve by summoning again the force of feeling which had brought him here. He would do this; but not without a drink.

In a leafy suburb of Liverpool, the brother of the missing Katie Sands was striding purposefully toward a pub on the Aigburth Road. He too needed a drink, whether it calmed him down or made him angrier was not a concern to him. Joey Sands was a broken man. His sister had disappeared only two months before and Joey knew who was to blame for it. He knew she’d been forced to it by that screwball ex-boyfriend of hers. The Scottish twat who’d hounded her – fucking stalked her – because he couldn’t accept she wanted to move on. Move on from the accusations, the rage, the interrogations, the threats. He’d only found out about the worst of this after the event, but his bloody mother had known and kept it quiet. Probably because she’d known how Joey would have reacted had he known. He’d have stiffened the cunt good and proper. Now he didn’t know if he’d ever see her again. They hadn’t always got on, but he loved her to pieces, maybe closer to her than anyone else in the world, and now she was gone, god knows where, maybe even dead. He was her big brother, older by three years. Same dark brown eyes and dark hair. Same good looks. There was even an attraction between them, never expressed obviously – well, almost once when he’d been around seventeen, horny and pissed but, thankfully she’d taken this as a joke, a sort of drunken flirt – he was glad nothing had come of it, it would have been mortifying to think he’d done it with his little sister. Still, these things were more common than people knew or admitted to.

She had always been a flirt – a flirt and a tomboy. Always that bit overweight, it was as if she was embarrassed to be feminine. Also; in scouse culture a chubby girl had to be grateful for male attention, not to be would attract derision. She couldn’t help but give the eye back if the eye was given to her. The Scottish cunt Warren, though, he falls for her head over heels, then goes nuts if she so much as raises her eyes from the ground in another man’s presence. His mum told him that this had all started when she’d copped off with one of his university mates. Sends him over the edge, especially when he finds out that she’d done it twice, and he hadn’t been the only one. He should have realised that about her, and he shouldn’t have got involved. That’s the way it is in Liverpool; everyone flirts and cops-off, then there’s fights and it’s all forgotten. The Scottish twat though, he falls apart, even makes her give up her job in the university, can’t stand her even being in the same building as the other fella. Follows her even out to Southport when she tries to get away from him. Next things she knows he’s moved there still making her life a misery until she can’t take it no more. Scottish twat then tries to do himself in when he finds out, ends up in hospital gettin’ his stomach pumped. To think he actually felt sorry for the cunt, appreciated the grief that had brought him to such drastic measures. That was before he’d learnt the truth.

Now Warren had fucked off. Off the face of the planet. Joey would find him though. As he began supping his second pint that’s exactly what he vowed to do.

Portobello has a sandy beach and is on the Firth of Forth on the east Coast of Scotland. Dave Warren needed to get away from Liverpool quickly, and after a short spell at his brother’s in London he’d decided to move up here. From the west coast originally, Glasgow to be precise, he was attracted to this quiet little town in the east. He remembered it from a family holiday many years ago when his Mum and Dad and little brother had spent two weeks here. The antiquated wee sweet shop where you could buy buckets and spades and windmills on Bath Street was still there.

He’d run from Liverpool due to grief and cowardice. He’d made her life a misery, and she’d fled, no-one knows where. He tried to end his own life but was saved by a concerned neighbour who must have heard his ravings and sobbing before he’d passed into whisky and pill induced unconsciousness.

While in hospital, he’d received a visit from Katie’s mum. She made it very plain, showing a side he’d never witnessed before, that he should leave Merseyside as soon as he was well enough. She’d said that due to her daughter’s guilt at how she’d hurt him, she’d requested that she did not reveal to the rest of the family how much trouble he’d been causing her, but now that Katie was gone, she would reveal to her husband and son what she felt about his continuous harassment of Katie which had led to her running away.

She also informed him, her eyes cold and her words harsh, that Katie’s close friends were only waiting his release from hospital to impart their own retribution. She left his bedside saying that she herself hoped he got all he deserved and was only giving him the advice to depart because her daughter had, at least at one time, loved him very much.

Katie’s mum’s visit cemented in his heart the hard fact that he very much wanted to die. Why then didn’t he just take his due retribution like a man? Maybe that would come later, he thought, but while he’d been lying in his hospital bed he’d been thinking about his life and what had brought him to this, and he’d formulated a plan. Yes, he would die – but, there were others that were going to die with him.

And, that was another reason why he was in Scotland.

He was beguiled by Katie right from the start. What he noticed about her initially were her beautiful white, perfect teeth when she’d smiled at him in the corridor at the university - she was a typist in the admin office, he was supposed to be researching a PhD and teaching part-time -her beautiful big brown eyes and her lustrous dark hair. She didn’t dress to kill, that’s for sure, she didn’t have the body for it. If he was to be crude, even though she was a plump lass, she exuded a definite horniness, maybe because she didn’t possess that untouchable femininity. She struck one as a horny tomboy. I f he’d known then that she’d attract others in the same way, he’d maybe have been less inclined to get involved. He wasn’t an opportunist though. He was one of those poor souls who fell in love with any woman he kissed let alone slept with.

He was one of those unfortunate characters who fell in love with whoever showed an interest in them, only to discover disastrously later the glaring incompatibilities which he would attempt chameleon-like to become compatible with. Through the medium of this basic lack of confidence in himself and with women he’d ended up in the most unrealistic relationships which would end painfully for both parties.

Katie, he felt very soon, to be completely compatible with. They laughed at the same things, liked the same music – Christ! She even liked Roy Harper. They just seemed to hit it off. He was so full of himself in those days; first class degree, doing the PhD, teaching classes. Things were going well for him for the first time in his life, it seemed. He didn’t really stop and think about her life or her past, it was just a glorious summer and just to be with her was enough.

He was lodging in an old ramshackle house owned by Geoff, one of the professors at the university. The house reflected Geoff perfectly, dishevelled and barely functional. Sunday meals were the big thing every week and Geoff, always Master of Ceremonies would put the roast in the oven, perfectly seasoned, and a bunch of them would traipse over to the local for a few pints before the meal. There was always Dave, and Geoff of course, and now Katie. There were other regulars, young academics like himself doing PhD’s, and sometimes some of the ‘old guard’ of Geoff’s friends, some right rasping old crustie’s they were, male and female, who smoked and drank too much and told the same old stories every week, about ancient scandals and japes.

“She had my dick in one hand, and a bottle of lager in the other”. Thus, Geoff related the tale of how he drove his latest unlikely amour over from Ellesmere Port (can you use the word amour in the same sentence as Ellesmere Port?) while she wanked him off (would any resultant accident be due to spillage?) and drank her fill at the same time. I use the word unlikely as Geoff was hardly what you’d call boy-band material. He wasn’t even middle-age men-band material. The lower half of his face was all stubble and nicotine. A sort of grey-brown effect that Cheryl Cole has never expressed a preference for. His eyes were bleary through a life-time of drink and possessed the lecherous twinkle of men young ladies see in the park and hurry away from. Geoff’s favourite sex-sport was spanking and he’d found his latest spankee among his student body (quite literally a student body, and a very attractive one too, twenty years his junior. How does he do it?). Warren could hear them from his room upstairs thwacking and cackling (no-one could cackle like Geoff – a cross between Long John Silver and Mutley with a west country burr).

On the bus to East Kilbride, the new town in the west of Scotland, where he’d spent his ‘formative’ years, Dave Warren tried not to think of the purpose of his trip. He had two and a bit thousand left from his ‘Voluntary Exit’ package from HM Revenue and Customs in Liverpool, so whatever he was going to do, he’d have to do it quickly. Why East Kilbride? Why, there he hoped to find his very first tormentor – the bully Nesbitt.

Warren had never visited Chicago, but if it was windier than East Kilbride, then it had to be a wild place. Located in the west central lowlands of Scotland it is exposed to the elements to the extent that you could often find yourself stopped in your tracks in the centre of the town by horizontal gusts of wind and rain. Indeed, as a child Warren had feared that if you opened your coat up ‘Batman-style’ you would be swept on the wind all the way to Glasgow eight miles east.

He’d loved East Kilbride as a kid, at least until his troubles had started. The ‘Murray’, the area he grew up in, he believed was the prettiest part of the town, owning as it did ‘the plantation’ directly behind the flats where he lived with his mum and dad, and later on his little brother. This was a hill which led down to the swing-park and the burn which had been planted with sapling conifers and offered a playground for hide and seek and other childhood pursuits. It was the scene of his first pre-pubescent sexual ‘thrill’ when Maureen Sweeney asked to see his willy.

In the winter there was a hill for sledging which, if you didn’t mind your momentum, could lead to you crashing into the frozen burn. His dad had built him a wooden sledge with steel runners, others would simply use a tea tray, or slide down the hill on foot, a pursuit which rendered you far more prone to injury as you’re speed picked up and your balance failed until you fell and tumbled down the ice.

It was school that did for him really. He was taller than the rest and therefore designated ‘best fighter’ an accolade neither proven or dis-proven until a wee ruffian from Glasgow came to the school and beat the shit out of him in the playground. He didn’t even fight back, thus his fall was steep from best fighter to fucking disgrace. He never recovered from this and was bullied from then on, inside and outside the school on a regular basis. Some kids marked their diaries to bully him. He’d sometimes offer a punch but so feeble was it, lacking any conviction, that it only provoked increased violence against him.

There was one kid, though, Willie Nesbitt, that really made his young life a humiliating misery, and that was his reason for returning to East Kilbride. To kill him.

Meanwhile, in the basement of Geoff’s house, Katie Sands was handcuffed to the wall. She’d lost count of the days, weeks and months. She only knew she hadn’t had a bath in any of them, unless you counted Geoff’s ‘bed-baths’ when he slavered over her, while concentrating way too much on her ‘private’ parts. She was immune to Geoff now. She had locked her fear, loathing and disgust in a private place within her where he would never touch. She wouldn’t forget though. One day she’d get out of this, then, she’d unleash a fury on him that would make him think Boudicca was a Carmelite nun on anti-depressants.  She was just waiting for him to slip up, which so far he hadn’t. He had always kept her at least hand-cuffed by one hand.

Luckily, they were the type of hand-cuffs made for sex games, so were fur-lined which had lessened the chaffing, she supposed. The entire basement room was filled with sado-masochistic apparel and machinery. Everyone knew Geoff had his kinky quirks but who knew he did it on this scale? Rubber masks and strange looking closets, whips and chains and some rather gruesome device which looked likely to simulate a thrusting action. That her recent moral crimes had been deemed to be of a sexual nature

On arrival at East Kilbride bus station, the first thing Dave noticed was that the town centre had disappeared, and had been replaced with entirely predictable covered mall. The old town with Princes Square at its centre had been a happy place for him. He’d first shop-lifted in Cochrane’s, one of the early ‘self-service’ shops. A bottle of soda water and a Napoleon Solo magazine, he could still feel the thrill. Now it was all gone; the Stuart Hotel, the Mushroom restaurant and replaced with this homogeneous monstrosity that you could find anywhere in the country.

However, having walked through the mall he chanced upon an exit which led him to Brigadoon. The tiles in this wee underground walkway were chipped and old, Dave realised that they hadn’t been touched since his day twenty years ago. He thought he could even recognise the graffiti. How strange that they should erect a huge multi-million pound shopping mall and leave this little underpass as a shabby relic of a previous time. It was only when he walked out of this little tunnel that he realised that the rest of the town had been dipped in aspic as well. It was all exactly as it was when he was a little boy. The Congregational church, the swing park, the burn, the plantation was now a dense, dark green, the sledging hill looked nothing like as scary or high as he’d remembered it. He walked the little path that took him to Quarry Park and then up to Baird Hill where he’d lived. He noticed that the fixtures and fittings had not been replaced or renewed. The street signs were exactly the same and looking the worst for wear and tear, even the clothes poles between which his mother had hung out washing were rusty and in need of a lick of paint. At number ninety-one he looked for the dent in the asphalt where his father had thrown a flaming chip pan out the kitchen window onto the little veranda – yes, he could still discern it.

Katie’s mother, Margaret and father John, had suffered greatly since her disappearance. They thought the worse. Katie wasn’t the sort of daughter who would run away and not contact them. She wouldn’t leave them in this much pain. All the appropriate channels had been followed; the police, the media appeals, the posters. All had come to nought. There had been reported sightings but still Katie had not appeared. They all now knew, family and friends, about her torturous relationship with Dave Warren, and though he had been questioned by the police and no evidence had been found linking him with whatever had happened to her or wherever she’d gone, they all believed that he, in some way, had something to do with it. Katie had told her mother of occasions when he had gone into a frenzy of jealousy and accusation, never hitting her, but threatening to.

Katie never expected him or anyone for that matter to fall for her so much. When she’d first met Dave he was still technically attached to a girl he’d been ‘on-and-off’ with for years; she’d even visited Liverpool while Katie was ‘seeing’ him. He’d even brought her to the college bar which everyone thought was well out of order, and had hurt Katie enough that she’d got drunk one night and ‘copped-off’ one night with Dave’s friend Jonas. It was part comfort, part revenge; part she was drunk, and part she fancied him anyway and was flattered by his attention. These were the kind of things that went on amongst the staff in universities, everyone knew that.

Dave couldn’t handle it though. It sent him into an awful spiral which lasted for years.

Added to this betrayal, as he saw it, he’d found out that it hadn’t been the only time with Jonas; he’d also found out about a drunken fling with a student she’d had on a field trip to Romania in the middle of all of this.

So there he was. By this time he’d given up the other girl to commit himself to Katie, but the relationship had changed to one of blame and hurt and suspicion on Dave’s side, and guilt and obligation on Katie’s – not a good recipe for success. He couldn’t give her up though, and she didn’t feel she was allowed to end it. Anyway, she had strong feelings of her own for him. She enjoyed his company, and nobody had ever treated her sexually the way he did. He really wanted to please her rather than just mount her and get his jollies, which was what she was used to. But, his terrible anger and suspicion scared her, and nothing she could do to show him how she felt ever really made a difference. The trust was gone, and once that happens you’re just ploughing on to the inevitable end.

Margaret Sands didn’t feel that Dave Warren was capable of murdering her daughter. He loved her too much. She knew instinctively also, that he had as much idea of where Katie as she did herself, which was no idea at all. When she had visited Warren in hospital after her suicide attempt, she was very raw and willing to blame him readily for her disappearance. Maybe he was to blame, but she knew somehow that her daughter was still alive, but in some kind of trouble.

Willie Nesbitt these days cut a dishevelled figure. Unemployed, divorced and heavily dependent on cheap alcohol, even his kids couldn’t face seeing him much anymore. He lived in one of the tower blocks in Greenhills, long known as the ‘bad’ part of East Kilbride where they’d re-housed people in the mid-sixties from the Gorbals and other such slum areas. His little one-bed flat was sparsely furnished and he sat this morning on a scruffy old armchair with cigarette burns on the arms. The friends he had were in an identical social and physical condition as himself. One of them, Paul Logan, was with him now. They were watching some show on television where people revealed the sordid secrets of their lives while some middle-class bloke in a suit berated them and egged an audience on to shout and curse at them.

-Utter pish this innit? Opined Willie rolling a fag, a can of Special Brew resting on the arm of the chair beside him.

-I reckon this is all a plot by the government to get people off the dole, offered Logan

Willie sniggered in anticipation. Paul was a droll fucker –how’d ye mean?

-well, they make daytime TV so depressing that it’s a fucking relief to get a joab, just tae get away fae it..!

-d’these cunts get paid fur goan oan this d’ye think? Willie had sometimes wondered if he’d be a suitable candidate. His life sure seemed to be as big a mess as some of these poor fuckers, maybe leaving out the incest and the secret transvestism.

-Aye, course they dae. They’ll aw be actors anyway. Logan wondered when Willie was going to get around to rolling a spliff. He knew he had a wee bit grass left in his tobacco tin; he’d looked when Willie had gone to the bog.

-Ye mean we’re watchin’ this an’ its no’ even true?

-Who fucking knows, eh? Logan took another slurp from his can and let out a loud burp while saying the word ‘cuntybaws’ at the same time. This never failed to make Willie laugh. When was he going to get the weed out?

Willie Nesbitt had ‘pished his life away’ as the local argot would have it. He’d never really grown up.

Married at nineteen, though already a father at eighteen, he’d already done his best work. In his community, having kids was social currency, you’d joined a club. You were considered a ‘man’, but you weren’t really.

Unlike his bride Ann, whose life was now the one-dimensional one of bringing up a child, then another two years later herself only nineteen, the life of Willie would go on pretty much as normal; drink, spliff, mates, occasional dalliance with other women; he loved his wife and kids but not enough to change his ways. He thought himself lord of his domain; his domain, though, was a meagre, tenuous entity. He’d left school with a ‘D’ grade ‘O’ Level in Metalwork and little chance or enthusiasm for gainful employment. Ann had left him some years back and was now living with a brickie in Wishaw. Due to his violent behaviour toward the denouement of the relationship, he had had no legal access to his kids, though they were now old enough to visit if they wanted to, which they evidently didn’t as he hadn’t seen either of them for some months. He was on anti-depressants, partly because he liked drugs, partly because he was depressed, and mostly because it qualified him for Invalidity Benefit, which kept him in beer, which further depressed him. The entire estate was depressed and Willie was never one to stand out from the crowd. Unable to sleep sometimes in the wee hours, he harboured secret thoughts of suicide; all he’d have to do was open the window and jump. Apart from his own cowardice, it wasn’t the thought of his kids that would keep him from this, but the thought of his mother who still lived up in The Murray where he’d grown up. He couldn’t leave her with the ignominy of a son who’d topped himself.

Gemma McShane was the closest of Katie’s old friends. This was how it had turned out anyway. At one point it had been Eddie, another time it had been her sister Jenny, but Gemma had won in the end. Everyone wanted to be Katie’s ‘special’ friend. She was a ‘one-off’, a total character, and Gemma loved her like a sister

She hadn’t liked the usurper Dave Warren almost from the start. He’d wanted her all to himself, and he didn’t really ‘fit in’ with them as a group of friends. He thought he was a big shot because he was doing his wonderful PhD, and teaching at the Uni, not even the proper one, but the ‘pretend’ one that used to be a Polytechnic.  And they’d all had a snigger about how he dressed; denim shirt, jeans and jacket, and cowboy boots; he looked like a gay Clint Eastwood, though without the looks. Katie was besotted by him though, they could all tell. It was true that he felt the same about her, and he was very kind to her, at least at first. They were amazed because, knowing her history, they knew she was mad about her ‘ex’, the brilliant and handsome Nic, though it was true that Nic had more than one ‘ex’ among them.

Gemma had hardly slept since her disappearance. Through her father, a rich local businessman, they had tried to put pressure on the police, but there was no trace of her, and no clue as to her whereabouts. She’d disappeared on a Tuesday, that’s all they knew. They’d interviewed Warren, but he appeared so distraught that the police discounted him from any enquiries, though that he had attempted suicide afterwards certainly cast suspicion on him, at least in Gemma’s eyes. Was this a sign of guilt, perhaps mixed with grief for something he’d done? And now he’d pissed off who knows where; London she’d heard where his family lived. She supposed that was natural enough, given that he knew they all hated him for the way he’d treated Katie, and all had suspicions about his possible involvement in her disappearance.

Now she was classified merely as a ‘missing person’, one of thousands as she was told. Gemma found herself crying uncontrollably once again. She missed her friend so much.

Joey Sands wasn’t pissing about when he said he was going to find Warren. He took two weeks off his work as an electrician for Sefton Council and had travelled down to London. He had met Warren’s brother Alan before when he had visited Liverpool. If anything, he thought Alan a much sounder bloke than his brother, even as a ‘Leftie’ he seemed more sure of his views, and just liked a drink and a good time. He was less ‘moody’ than his brother. From their conversation one night, Joey had learned that Alan lived in Leytonstone in the east end of London, same place as David Beckham and Jonathon Ross, he’d said. He’d also raved about a pub called The Red Lion on the High Road there. Dave had used to be the barman there, and captain of the pool team. He’d have to be the bloody captain, thought Joey.

Joey knew he couldn’t approach Dave’s brother directly; he and his family would be well aware of the feelings of Katie’s family and friends toward him. Otherwise, he’d just have phoned Dave’s mum and asked her where he was, but she wouldn’t have told him. He was going to have to be clever about this. He looked through the windows of the pub for a good few minutes to make sure Alan wasn’t in, he could be in the toilet or something. When he was sure, he went into the pub and sat by the bar. He ordered a beer from the barman, engaging him in conversation. After a while he got down to the subject at hand.

-Didn’t there used to be a barman here called Dave? He asked, ordering another beer and inviting the barman to have ‘one for himself’.

-Yeh, yeh, there was, some time back. I only know that cos his brother still drinks in here.

-yeh, I know Alan too, has he been in tonight? Joey could feel a breakthrough if he played this cagey.

-Nah, he only comes in at the weekends, under the thumb from his missus. Where’d you know them from then?

-O Liverpool, many moons ago. I’d heard Dave was back in London and I’m workin’ down ‘ere at the minute, thought I’d look him up.

-You’ll be out of luck there mate, he’s gone back to Scotland..

Scotland was a big place; this was the crunch –o right! Yeh he comes from Glasgow, never thought he’d move back there though, never had a good word for the place.

-No, no! Alan was saying Edinburgh, by the seaside. I never realised Edinburgh was on the seaside, but that’s what he said

-No, neither did I. Just Edinburgh he said, nowhere more specific, it’s just my work takes me all over, never know where I’ll be

-
nah! I don’t think he said. Oh wait a minute, he did mention it, foreign sort of name sounded Spanish or Italian, Port..something or other. Honestly can’t remember. He’ll be in at the weekend, you can ask him. Who shall I say was asking for him?

Joey finished his beer and got up to leave –tell him Stevie, Stevie Francis, but I’ll pop back at the weekend..G’night!

Joey had no intention of popping back then or any other time. He was heading for Kings Cross in the morning to catch a train to the fair city of Edinburgh.

That Geoff had lost the plot big time was beyond question. An exemplar of the ‘straight-and-narrow’ he had never been, but kidnapping women was an extreme even he hadn’t previously visited. He had lived a rather sheltered life as had many academics as a matter-of-course. Straight from school to University, in Geoff’s case the LSE, then the research post, then teaching. For those warranted to teach about the world, few had experienced very much of it, except from books. They hadn’t worked in factories, or offices, or down mines. They hadn’t had to sign-on or live on council estates. It was as well that most of the students they encountered hadn’t had to do any of these either, so they could be mutually oblivious.

Geoff was from modestly well-off Somerset stock; his father had been Headmaster of a minor public school which he himself had attended as a pupil. Academically bright he also excelled at cricket, there were photographs of him around the house of him spin-bowling for his school and later, the LSE where he’d graduated with a 2:2 in Geography. He’d then been on the teaching staff of every version of the current Uni, since the late 1960s. He wasn’t the archetype ‘History Man’ of Bradbury’s novel but, like many of his contemporaries, he took advantage of his position as a lecturer, certainly with regards to the female student body, or bodies which would be more to the point, even married one of them and spawned several children in a marriage enraged by Liverpudlian temper and the Geoff ego and self-centredness.

The reason why Katie Sands was trapped in the basement was because he wasn’t getting his own way. It seemed that everyone was allowed access to her except him. If that sentimental twat Warren knew the truth of this he’d have made sure he’d killed himself instead of the attempt he’d botched. She made it clear to Geoff that though she liked him, he repelled her physically. On the day he’d kidnapped her, he’d rang her at home saying he’d arranged for little Jonas, Warren’s friend she’d had the fling with, and a few others to come over and would she like to come. As Warren was down at Warwick University doing some research, she couldn’t refuse. She was sick of staying in just because of his mad jealousy. She wanted to see her old friends again, particularly Jonas. Of course, when she got there it was only Geoff who’d drugged her wine and the next she knew she was lying on a mattress and hand-cuffed to the wall. That she’d been raped she knew instinctively, her head was pulsating with pain, and she was sick up against the wall, most of it splashing back onto the mattress and herself. Taught through her lifetime by her father never to cry, she fought hard to hold back the tears, but they flowed anyway. What was she doing in this dungeon? She looked around the dimly-lit room and saw all the kinky gear. A feeling of actual terror overcame her, and the person she wanted to see most was a hundred miles away in Coventry.

Dave had found the Nesbitt phone number through directory enquiries. The family, or at least some or one of them, was still at the same address. He gulped nervously as the phone rang; a woman answered.

-Hello, six-three-eight-two..

-Eh, Hullo, my names Billy Coulson, I’m looking for a William Nesbitt..

-Oh He doesnae live here anymore, son..who did you say you were?

-Billy Coulson, an old friend of William’s. Do you know where I could find him?

-Oh he’s out in Greenhills noo, I’m not awful sure of the address to be honest. One of the high flats I think it’s the tenth floor, but I’m no’ sure. I only really see him when he comes to visit. Have you a number I could get him to ring next time I see him?

-Is he on the phone at all?

-no he’s not son. I wish he was it’d be easier to get in touch with him, I only see him when he visits, and that’s not very often. His brother’s..

-Thanks Mrs Nesbitt, that’s ma money runnin’ oot, thanks anyway. He could tell she was going to gab a good long while if he let her and, anyway he wasn’t going to get much more information from her. He’d have to do a little detective work.

John Sands could be a real miserable bastard of a man. It was said of him that he could suck the happiness out of a room just by entering it. He thought highly of himself though. His were the good looks his kids had inherited and there was nothing in the world of DIY that he couldn’t turn his hand to. The fact that no-one actually liked him was one that he was singularly un-attuned to. Scousers, like everyone else, were multi-faceted; they had good and bad characteristics. John Sands, either by inheritance or adoption, possessed all of the bad ones. He was childishly argumentative, always having to have the last word, he proscribed conversation toward topics he thought worthy, which they usually weren’t, he didn’t realise how boring he was and yes, he could freeze an atmosphere just by turning up, stopping laughter and easy-conversation dead in their tracks. It was a gift he had.

Like a sort of Liverpudlian King Lear he controlled his wife and kids through manipulation and proffered favouritism. You complied with his manipulations and moods eventually because you learned the pain of non-compliance. He was critical of all of them; with Katie it would be her weight; with Joey his lack of skill as an electrician, an occupation they both shared; and with his wife any manner of things.

Dave Warren very quickly learned to avoid being in his company at all costs, he felt the same way about Katie’s brother Joey. Joey, like his sister had not been brought up in Liverpool but in Maghull in a nice house in a rural area, a fact that Joey did everything he could to hide. Living in Bootle he became ‘Scouser than Scouse’, introducing himself not as Joe or Joseph but ‘Joey’. He was a thick, witless, thuggish arsehole – a persona he’d taken great pains to perfect. He objected to men swearing in front of women, he thought a woman should dress nice for a man, he thought men should talk about ‘men’s’ things. When drunk he would get ragingly sentimental over some perceived slight to any or all of these rules, and invariably want to fight for no better reason than it proved what a Scouser he was.

John Sands, though, was grieving sorely. His default setting for as long as he could remember was ‘never show your feelings’, this went for happiness and sadness, but this was breaking him. For all his faults, the father/daughter bond was very strong. In some ways, and when he let it prevail, Katie was his best friend. They bounced off one another with their little catch-phrases and ‘in-jokes’. In many ways, she’d been the only one to stand up to him as well, and he admired her for it, she’d rebelled; deliberately being friends with people he neither liked nor approved of like the McShane sisters from the big house in Ormskirk. She’d even renounced his own religion Catholicism in the most dramatic fashion; demanding that her confirmation name be Beelzebub, she’d been expelled from the school. He’d been furious at the time, but it also made him proud how wilful she could be.

He’d give anything to see her again.

Clyde Tower or Calder Tower, it had to be one of those two. He’d tried the ninth, tenth and eleventh floors in Clyde Tower but no sign of the name Nesbitt. In Scotland, people put nameplates on their doors otherwise he would have no chance of finding him. It was four-thirty in the afternoon and it was already dark.
November in Scotland was an unforgiving month. He went to the ninth floor of Calder Tower, but no joy; on the tenth floor though no nameplate but the name ‘Nesbitt’ cut into the wooden doorframe maybe with a knife or a screw-driver. He wondered if Nesbitt was now some kind of psycho, no worries, he had his own knife.

He was taking a big chance here. He had to find out the Nesbitt domestic situation. Maybe he was at work and his wife would answer, maybe he was at home, but with friends. In either event he’d pretend he’d got the wrong door and try another tack at another time. He rattled the letterbox. There was a shuffling from the hallway and then the door opened. A distinctly unkempt figure stood there looking a little the worse for wear.

-Hi there..! He couldn’t hear any voices from inside so he took a chance –Willie Nesbitt is it?

Nesbitt creased his eyes as if this would help him identify the caller –who, eh...who are you like?

-Dave, ...eh Davie Warren! Mind? Fae Murray Primary, we were in the same class?

-Murray Primary..? Nesbitt said this somewhat incredulously, it seemed like another lifetime ago.

-Aye! Christ we even sat next to each other for a while. Look, I’ve brought a wee bevy. He indicated the laden bag he was carrying –any chance I could come in, ahm only back here the day then ahm back tae London, just lookin’ up some old chums..

Willie was more impressed by the bevy than this apparent stranger. He’d been drinking most of the day and had just awoke from a dead slumber and the words ‘hair’ and ‘dog’ would have persuaded him to let Vlad the Impaler through the door –Aye, why not? Come in...

Warren took one look at the living room and had deduced Nesbitt’s existence to a t. There were some cruel souls in the world who may have termed Nesbitt a loser. All the hallmarks were here to back this up. Threadbare furniture, ashtrays crammed with stubbed out ciggies, bits of Rizla cardboard scattered around the coffee table, empty cans of strong lager.

-Huv a seat, Willie accepted a can of Heineken, which was a bit like methadone to a heroin addict but he was grateful for it nonetheless, and his heart leapt when a bottle of Whisky was produced and he was asked to get a couple of glasses.

-So...ye don’t remember me do ye? Warren’s manner was bright and friendly but, sitting forward on this tatty old couch, he came across to Nesbitt as slightly too familiar and aggressive. Maybe it was just the shakes, but this situation was blowing his mind a little. He took a gulp of his whisky.

-eh...I’m beginning to I think. Did you live up in The Murray?

-Baird Hill..! Exclaimed Warren somewhat over-exuberantly –same as you. I was ninety-one, you were thirty-four was it..?

-thirty-six, corrected Nesbitt –when did you move away, tae London was it?

-twenty odd-years ago noo, moved tae Glasgow first before London

-and whit brings ye back, just visitin’ or that..?

-naw, naw, Warren produced a large hunting knife from a holster beneath his jacket and placed it on the coffee table –ahv come back tae kill you..!

Joey Sands got off the train at Waverley Station. The first thing he noticed was how cold it was. He’d never been to Scotland before, but he’d worked with a few Jocks and they’d been a good laugh. He seemed to remember they’d mostly been from Glasgow in the west, and he’d heard them slagging off people from the east coast as having no sense of humour. Seemed odd, since they had that big comedy festival every year.

He got in the back of a taxi and spoke to the driver.

-Awright pal, eh..seems strange this but I’ve never been to Edinburgh. I’m looking for a place..Port somethin’, might be a bit foreign sounding..

The driver, who’d been driving a taxi for twenty five years could sense a good fare here – eh, could it be Port Seaton? Port Seaton was a right few miles, and anyway he couldn’t think of any other Port something. Could be Port o’Leith, but nobody called it that unless they meant the pub –it’s definitely a place ye want is it, it’s no Port o’Leith pub?

-no, no It’s definitely a place. We’ll try this Port Seaton place

The cabbie started the engine and they drove out to the east of the city. Coming straight out of the station Joey was met with the sight of this Capital city in all its lit-up glory and it impressed him the same way it had impressed millions of first-time visitors before him. From the castle on Castle Rock, the white mansions of Ramsay Mews down to the Bank of Scotland HQ on The Mound, the effect was breathtaking. Turning right on to Princes Street, the Scott Monument looked massive, dark and ornate. As they drove on Joey was impressed by the massive lump to his left, it looked like a huge slumbering cat.

-What’s that there mate? That big hill?

-That’s Arthur’s Seat. It’s an extinct volcano. Been there thousands of years.

Joey had never even heard of it, so he kept quite to draw a veil over his ignorance. They were passing through a town in the gloom when it clicked. ‘Welcome to Portobello – Edinburgh’s Seaside’ said the sign. He remembered the barman’s word’s – sounds Spanish or Italian, Port something, by the seaside.

-‘Ere mate! This is it here – Portobello. I’ve remembered now

-You sure? The driver was obviously disappointed. Port Seaton was a further five miles on.

-Yep! This is the place. Joey paid his fare and got out to walk around the little coastal town of Portobello.

What Joey didn’t know was that his Father had at that minute crossed the border into Scotland in his little red van. His wife, Margaret had phoned Joey at home only to be informed that he’d left that morning for Edinburgh in pursuit of Dave Warren. She was told this by Joeys’ girlfriend and mother of his child, Tiffany. Tiffany had told Margaret all she knew about his specific destination – Port something, Spanish or Italian, by the sea. On hearing this, John Sands had scrutinised his RAC map and found the answer. His wife urged him to drive up there and get Joey before he did something he’d regret.

That day Geoff had gone to work as usual, leaving Katie to endure another day of imposed seclusion. The room was sound-proofed, not surprising given its utility, so it was useless for her to shout and scream, and despite the fur-lined padlock it chafed her wrist painfully to keep struggling in an attempt to elicit a Houdini-like escape. Even if she did, the basement door was heavily fortified with strong locks. She had nothing to do then except think about what had brought her to this sorry pass, and to how she could possibly get out of here without further harm. There had to be others other than Geoff that knew about this place and possibly they would link her disappearance with Geoff in some way.

Geoff had already angrily proclaimed to her that he’d taken this course of action because it seemed that he was the only one that she hadn’t favoured. He’d snarled this at her as if this was somehow her fault. Geoff was like a child, he had to have all the toys.

These past two years had been a nightmare, never mind her two months of captivity. There’d been something about Dave Warren that impressed her, and she wasn’t easily impressed, not by the academic staff anyway. As a typist she had to put up with their mini-pomposities and posturing about their academic stature – ‘It’s Senior lecturer at the bottom, Katie, Senior...’. She’d first encountered him in the smoking room and heard him chatting to a couple of his students. He just seemed like a normal, grounded, down-to-earth bloke, which he was really. He was also unbelievably insecure, jealous and possessive, but she wouldn’t find that out until later, and to be fair, she did do her bit to fuck him up.

She’d first formally met Dave’s friend at an anti-Apartheid gig Dave was doing at the Flying Picket, though she’d noticed him around the college as most of the other office girl’s had. Jonas was good-looking with a carefree manner that attracted Katie immediately. They’d watched Dave’s performance with some awe. He seemed to hold the audience in the palm of his hand with the strength of his voice and his easy quips between songs. That he could perform at all was astonishing considering the amount of booze he’d put away during the course of the day. He seemed to have an incredible capacity for it, and it was only when merrily drunk would he partake of the offered spliff which was always Katie’s drug of choice.

From that time on, she’d started hanging around with Dave and his little group of academic friends. She fitted in well, as she refused to take any of them very seriously.

And then his girlfriend came to visit, and it all went to fuck.

He’d handled that very badly and it had caused her tremendous hurt and humiliation. She’d ended up out drinking with Jonas and one thing had led to another. Boy, had she been made to regret that.

No matter what she’d done to try to make up for it, it was no good.

If she was truthful, she was on the rebound when all this happened; from Nic who she’d had a mad crush on since she was a teenager. Rock-star looks, computer whizz-kid, totally arrogant but irresistible to her. She’d found her and that little minx Eddie in bed together round at his place, so she was already hurt and here she was hurt again.

After he’d found out about her and Jonas, Dave went into tail-spin. He gave up his girlfriend, Geoff said he was in a terrible state about that. News of it made her go cold. It meant she was now officially Dave’s girlfriend, a situation she hadn’t looked for at all, but was now stuck with, but things just went from bad to worse. He made her give up her job at the Uni, and then he’d moved out to Southport where she lived. For a while he even shared her flat. It was the worst time of her life. His PhD was gone, he couldn’t face going into the place where Jonas and the rest worked. His drinking became chronic; she was forced to witness the terrible, violent sickness he suffered after poisoning himself with it. Unbelievably, the love was still there, but it had mutated and contorted. She literally had to walk through the town with him with her eyes fixed to the ground, so fixated had he become that she couldn’t help returning men’s looks. She had told him that that was who she was. She always considered herself to be a bit of a tart.

She’d never been involved with anyone before who cared enough to mind. And now she knew she didn’t want to be.

Willie Nesbitt eyed the whisky bottle as a potential weapon but, strangely, he realised that he hadn’t the courage to waste the drink. If he could somehow decant it into another vessel then he might use it. This was weird logic if he was going to be killed anyway. Davie Warren was re-counting the times Willie had bullied him at school, sat on his chest and slapped his face, dragged him around by his school tie. Willie listened and the memories of it came back to him as he sat there well into his second can. Warren was saying how it had ruined his early school-life and recently he’d been reflecting how much it had been embryonic of his continuing misery and self-loathing. He now wanted revenge. His life had finally collapsed and he just wanted pure, unadulterated revenge.

Willie was listening to this, but it wasn’t really reaching him. He was actually enjoying the drink too much, and he didn’t really care if he died anyway, as long as it was quick and not too painful. This relative stranger, who he had apparently had such a malignant influence on, would be doing him a massive favour. He’d just like to get a little bit more drunk first. Dutch courage for the final end. That’s why he had no intention of losing that lovely whisky.

-Is there nothing you want to say?

-naw, eh..naw, no really..except that I’m truly sorry for what happened. We were just kids, dog eat dog and a’ that. Listen, I’m no’ bein’ funny or that an’ i’m no playin’ for time. D’ye mind me just havin’ another bit o’ whisky and a fag before ye know...

Warren poured the whisky for him in case he tried to lamp him with the bottle and Nesbitt rolled himself a fag.

-if it’s any consolation to you big man ma life’s a total misery too. Weans and wife have gone, total alkie. If I had the guts I’d be oot that windae. I’m jist blown away that I’ve had such a bad affect oan someone else’s life. I’d no idea..

-Yeh, as if it’s no bad enough what ye did tae me, but you don’t hardly even remember. That’s fuckin rich since ahv been cursing your name for twenty years.

Warren looked at this guy and realised he couldn’t kill him. It would be like a mercy killing, like putting a sick dog out of its misery, but the past had to be avenged.

-Stand up Nesbitt

Nesbitt was about to plead for his cigarette break.

-Jist staun up, Warren ordered.

Nesbitt clambered out of the seat and stood – there were tears in his eyes. There’s a group of nerves just under the ribs which, if clutched very hard can cause the owner immense, demobilizing pain. This is what Warren did. It caused Nesbitt such pain that he was unable even to cry out or defend himself. Warren tightened his grip and spat out his words into Warren’s face

-Ahm no’ gonnie kill you Nesbitt cos you’re pathetic and you’re always gonnie be pathetic, so live long and suffer!

With this he ran the rim of his boot down Nesbitt’s shin, making sure to tear the skin under his jeans and slammed down hard on top of Warren’s foot; so hard he could feel the bone crunch. He threw Nesbitt back down in his chair where he writhed in agony.

Warren picked up his knife from the table and sheathed it back in its holster. He headed for the door.

-Ye can keep the bevy Nesbitt, he said –you’re need looks greater than mine..!

Gemma had invited her sister Jenny, and friends Eddie, Josh and Baz around to her house. She wanted to discuss the Katie situation with them. If she was still alive, couldn’t they help to find her if they put their collective minds to it? Where had she gone that Tuesday?

The police had established that Dave Warren was in Coventry that day, at Warwick University to be precise, and that Katie had been in Southport; she had been seen by neighbours leaving her flat in the mid afternoon. So unless she’d gone to Coventry to be kidnapped or killed it was unlikely that Dave Warren had anything to do with it in that sense. Another theory was that she was so depressed by the Dave Warren situation that she’d killed herself somehow, thrown herself in the Mersey and was yet to be discovered, something like that. This, she knew, is what Joey Sands feared had happened. They couldn’t think of Katie as being the type to do this, she was too strong, too determined and stubborn to do a thing like that. Apart from which, she was too loyal to her friends and family. At the very least she wouldn’t have kept them in the dark like this and there was no note, no sign of suicide.

No, the clue had to lie in where she had gone that day. Where was she going? She had no work to go to. She’d had a few menial jobs, in care homes and the like since she’d left her job at the University (they’d wondered why she’d left at the time, now they knew, it was pressure from Warren) but, it wasn’t a job she was going to the day she vanished. The only clue they had was that, according to the police, she’d had a phone call from the university that day, but they could only trace the generic number not a particular extension. They had questioned staff at the university who knew her but no-one who’d said they had phoned her. Prompted by Gemma they made a list of who it may have been.

Jonas – the obvious one. Hadn’t proved himself to be too loyal a friend to Warren, if truth be told. It wasn’t hard to imagine though, that Katie would have responded positively to any call from him. Hard to imagine why he’d want to do her harm though. He was just a smiley, privileged sort of boy/man who had too much to lose to do anything like kidnap or murder. He knew Katie was easy though especially for him, so the call could have come from him.

Rick Black – Jonas’s Draculean friend. Long had designs on Katie since he’d ‘insinuated’ himself into their little drinking group at the Uni. They’d have been well-suited too. She’d told Gemma how much she’d liked him, though she couldn’t see it herself. Gemma thought him creepy and untrustworthy. Back in the early days when Warren still had another girlfriend in the background, Katie had expressed her liking for this figure he would come to describe as ‘Lurch’, almost asking his permission. Predictably, he’d gone off his nut. Maybe she’d run off with him. That was a possibility worthy of follow-up.

There was a bloke well known for pestering Katie when she worked at the Uni, and he’d contacted a few times since she’d left – Derek Smallbone. He was a weird one alright, thought the television spoke to him; sent messages to him. He’d confided this to Katie on one of his many unnecessary visits to the typing room.

The trouble with Katie and men was that she was actually quite flirty, but not in a girly sort of a way. It was more ‘blokey’. It made her very approachable to men who were then led to believe they had a chance with her. God knows how many in that college she’d actually copped-off with or worse. Sometimes Gemma actually felt sorry for Warren; he’d walked into a nightmare.

The meeting enthused the group, and they agreed that they should start immediately to investigate Black and Smallbone. Gemma , Baz and Eddie would do a tail job on Black; Julie and Josh would take on Smallbone.

Joey Sands was so surprised to see his father eating breakfast at the B&B that he nearly shit himself.

-What the fuck are you doin’ here? He hissed this at his father not wanting the proprietors who were rushing around fixing the breakfast stuff to hear.

-Why do you think? Answered his father, over-salting his breakfast in a way that was unwise for a man with diagnosed Angina –you and your madcap ideas. Tiffany told your mum you’d come up here, she’s worried about what you might do, we all are!

-I’m trying to get sumthin’ done about our Katie. If not, then I’m gonna do sumthin’ about Mister Warren..

-O aye? And how’s that gonna help?

They realised they were attracting attention from other residents who’d come in to their breakfast.

-Listen, son. Let’s go for a walk and talk about this properly.

With this, they got their respective coats and walked out into the slate-grey morning.

-this is the last thing we need Joseph, you gettin’ yerself locked up cos of Warren. We don’t even know if he’s any part of it. The police even established that he was in the midlands at the time..

-well, how come he’s came running away up here then? Why didn’t he stay? And, anyway, no one else is doin’ anythin’. They’ve got her down as a missin’ person and there’s thousands of those. Warren treated Katie like shit Dad, and that’s why she’s run away, or whatever’s happened to her. I just want some satisfaction and at least put a bit of pressure on ‘im, see if he can give us any clues...

John Sands could see the sense of his son’s words. It was better than doing nothing at all. They owed nothing to Warren.

-Alright, son we’ll play it your way. S’long as you promise not to go over the top, and let me do it with ya...

-No problem. First we gotta find him tho’..

They got into Mr Sand’s van and drove around the tiny seaside town. They decided that the best way to find him was to wait at a place where he was likely to turn up. There was a Scotmid’s supermarket in the centre just off the High Street; they decided that if they waited here long enough, parked opposite, Warren would call in here for provisions. If not they’d have to think of a Plan B.

Dave Warren was pleased with his nights work on Willie Nesbitt. He’d probably be in hospital getting his foot tended to. He knew he wouldn’t approach the police about anything, he’d just be glad to be still alive.

Actually, he thought, he probably wouldn’t be. There would be many dark nights in his future when Willie Nesbitt will wish his life had ended last night. Warren was going back to Glasgow again that day, but was now turning the corner to go to Scotmid for some milk and other provisions when he saw them. At first he thought he was seeing things but almost instantly wondered why he hadn’t been expecting such a visitation.

There across the road sitting in a red van was Katie’s father and brother. Joey was reading a paper, predictably The Sun whilst her father was staring vacantly out of the window at passers-by. Dave back-tracked and thought of the best way to handle this. He could just jump on a bus and go for a train to Glasgow, and then he saw the little rapscallions playing football over by the library.

For twenty quid each they agreed to go into the police station across the road and report that two men in a red van had stopped them and asked them to get into the van and come for a little ride with them; they said they were offered money and promised sweets. Portobello is an area full of kids, it’s a friendly place with a beach and young, often middle-class couples lived there especially because it was a great place for kids to grow up in. The policeman at the desk knew he would have to take a complaint such as this seriously. It may be just kids making mischief and he knew these two scallywags of old, they were products of ‘old’ Portobello, from the other side of the High Street, the council flats, but he informed his superior immediately of their complaint.

Joey and his Dad thought the cops were only interested in them because they’d been parked there so long. It was only when they’d been taken into the tiny interview room at the police station that they were informed of the allegation that they were a couple of kiddie-fiddlers; that two kids had complained that they were being propositioned by them. Joey and his father looked at each other in horror. Even the allegation alone, were it to be known was enough to ensure that they could never return to Liverpool and its environs ever again. If you’d told them they’d been accused of raping the Queen and all her corgi’s it would have been far more welcome news to the both of them. As it was, time stood still for them in that little room in Portobello. Finally Joey spoke.

-you don’t believe that do yer? I mean it’s just kids messin’..! He wondered if this was normal in Scottish seaside towns, to be accused of messing with kids the second day you’d arrived. It must be so rife up here that it’s the first thing they expect from strangers.

-messing?

The pronunciation of the word was accompanied by raised eyebrows. Joey realised it was maybe an unfortunate choice of word.

-You mean they just made it up out of thin air?

-Well kids do that kinda thing, don’t they?

Again the querulous looks from the policeman and his colleague.

-do they? It’s not the first time in your experience, then?

While they were waiting to see if there was any data or ‘previous’ on the two men, John Sands explained to the two officers the reason for their visit to Portobello and why they were parked across from Scotmids for the past few hours. It wasn’t hard to verify the detail of this as there had been a lot of press coverage. While convincing to the officers, alongside the news that they were clean of any previous record related to child molestation, it did not stop news getting around the small community and for an ever-increasing crowd of angry residents to have gathered around the police station.

Gemma and her friends Baz and Eddie were all products of ‘good schools’. Gemma and her sister Jenny had attended Merchant Taylor’s, the North West’s premiere ‘creme de la creme’ school. Baz had been privately educated also, whilst Eddie had attended a decent local grammar school. The characteristic each of them shared was the ability to talk very loudly and assertively. This made their company, whether indoors, or outside in a pub or restaurant, very noticeable. You couldn’t very well ignore them and Warren in particular with his working class background and bias, hated them with a passion he was only able to contain because of his desperate love for Katie. In a rage though, he would describe them as vacuous arseholes and middle-class idiots. This hardly endeared him to Katie as she loved her friends dearly, but there was something about the mutual hostility that she found satisfying, it proved how much they all loved her.

Warren had often described them as ‘like being in an episode of Friends’ and that all that was lacking was the theme music when you walked in. Indeed, they were all avid fans of the show, and without realising it had started emulating figures-of-speech and other mannerisms from the main characters. Warren seemed to be the only person to have noticed this. He had wasted precious time matching them up.

Now, though, they were impersonating The Famous Five sans dog in pursuit of an answer to their friend’s disappearance. Could it be someone like Rick Black who Katie had run off with, maybe she was holed up in his flat? Maybe he’d abducted her? Who knows what anyone is capable of, and it was true that they didn’t know him very well.

They had disguised themselves with the use of hoods and sunglasses and were currently following Black up Lark Lane off of which his flat was located.

He was an odd looking man. Warren called him ‘lurch’ because he appeared to stoop, dressed old-fashionedly and had a Dracula-type hair shape. He resembled a young Ray Reardon. He’d been going out with a pretty blonde admin worker at the college who’d confessed to Katie that he had an odd-shaped penis, sort of bendy and stubby at the same time. As was common she’d gone out with him, not for his looks or charm, but because of his position as permanent academic staff. By this reckoning Katie had drawn the short straw as Warren was decidedly impermanent.

They watched Black enter The Albert public house. The Albert is the trendiest pub on Lark Lane. In days gone by you might have caught a glimpse of Ian McCulloch or Pete Wylie supping a pint and looking unapproachably cool and Godlike. The Albert was a place for the pretentious and the middle-class politicised student. It was also a place where surreptitious scallie’s would clock you and, knowing where you live, nip round and rob your flat. If you weren’t in, you were out, can’t argue with the logic there.

The intrepid trio hung about at a corner opposite the pub wondering what to do next when Rick Black came back out of the pub, this time not alone. They recognised his companion as none other than Jonas. They were laughing together and heading for Rick’s flat round the corner of the pub.

-Two for the price of one, said Gemma and motioned the others to follow.

What were they hoping to discover? Was Katie being held captive?

Black’s flat was on the first floor of a low block of rented flats. They waited until the pair had been inside for a good twenty minutes then crept upstairs to Black’s door. They could hear laughing and grunting from inside. Very slowly Gemma lifted the letter box and looked in upon a scene she was far from expecting. Jonas was dressed as a French maid – full regalia, stockings, wig, high heels, and he was stroking Black’s bare back-side with a Ken Dodd style feather duster while digging his stiletto heel with some force into the small of Nick Black’s naked, hairy back. Black, in turn, was gagged and blindfolded and had his penis inserted into a child’s Teddy Bear.

Gemma quietly closed the letter box and urged her friends to scurry away down the stairs.

Jenny and Josh meantime were watching Derek Smallbone trying on a variety of brightly coloured thong’s in his bedroom. This they were doing from a hill near to his house and with the aid of Josh’s excellent high-powered binoculars, although Jenny had become pleased to rely on Josh’s commentary of events. One you’ve seen a small, dumpy man arrange his genitalia into one thong, you’ve pretty much got the picture.

-O God he’s having a wank!

Derek Smallbone was indeed pleasuring himself. That he seemed intent in climaxing into a Charles and Diana commemorative wedding mug which he was holding with his non-wanking hand in preparation, merely left Josh bereft of further commentary. He counselled a speedy exit for them both not wishing to share the degradation.

Dave Warren had left the mayhem he’d cause in Portobello behind and had caught a train to Glasgow. His victim this time would be a namesake of his, Jim Warren. Jim Warren, who had then been fifteen and sixteen had bullied and humiliated Dave, who had been thirteen and fourteen, in many and various ways. Not least, he’d used Warren to practice his kung fu kicks on. It was the height of the Bruce Lee thing and Jim Warren fancied himself as a high-kicker. He’d threaten Warren into standing at the end of the landing facing the wall, while he took a running leap and kung fu-kicked Warren on the back of the neck. This he did in front of a third party – Brian Lamont, who would look at Dave Warren with detached disgust, as if to say ‘why are you letting him do this to you? If he tried it with me I’d stiffen him’. Well, that was alright for him. Davy-boy wisnae very good at stiffening people, let alone sturdy Jim Warren.

Dave had never forgotten Brian Lamont’s look, and today he was gonna scratch the cause of it out of existence.

The only way the Portobello police could free Mr Sands and son from the baying mob outside the police station was to take them out the back way and into a waiting car and drive them out of town. Some of the crowd had gathered around Mr Sands van to ensure they had no access to it, so that would have to remain in Portobello for the time being. They were escorted in this fashion to Waverley Station and advised to take the first train out.

-fuckin ‘ell exclaimed Joey as they settled down in their seats – that’s the fookin’ last time I go to Scotland. They’re fuckin’ mad..!

Mr Sands looked at his son and wondered why he had to speak in such a pronounced accent.

Jim Warren had done well for himself. His own business, a fleet of vans, wife, kids, nice house in Clarkston – he’d definitely done well. Only one cloud loomed over him, but a few bungs in the right hands was taking care of that he hoped, though Masonic connections stretched only so far, and his friends in the police would only turn a blind eye so many times.

He’d built himself a little ‘studio’ next to his work premises with the help of some of his employees who thought they we just building a little flat. He’d taken care of the fixtures and fittings himself.

Lately, though, things had got a bit out of hand. The only thing that done it for him these days – really turned him on – were Oriental lady-boys. And the reason the police might be interested was that these ‘lady-boys’ were not always of the requisite age of consent.

Success had always come easy for Jim. Good looks, strong build, women had thrown themselves at him since he first became aware of them as a teenager. Sex with women was on tap but he always had a sense that his passions would flare in more ‘sensual’ arenas. He’d gone on a lads holiday to Thailand just before he’d got married for the second time and had discovered a whole different world of delights and desires. Chicks with pricks. Glamorous ‘women’ with good strong sturdy dicks. To this day he would burst anyone’s lip who called what he did ‘homosexual’. Somehow the femininity aspect allowed him to deny that he had actually been sleeping with men.

Lately though, he’d been drawn to more dangerous waters – auto-asphyxiation they called it, sexual bliss on the brink of death. He had all the gear for it in the ‘studio’ and he liked to do it on his own. The risk of death had to be real - no point having someone there that could save you, that ruined the whole thing.

Dave Warren couldn’t have been further from his thoughts; in fact he’d forgotten his existence entirely.

Which made it all the more surprising to be faced by that self-same very individual at the front gate of his work premises.

-Hey Jim how goes it, Dave proffered a hand to shake

-Jim ignores this – do I know you mate?

-Used to, few years back noo Jim. Kennishead Flats, big tube you used to bully, though meant to be a mate. Anywhere we can talk?

Jim was shocked by this outburst, and he instantly recognised his old chum. He didn’t like the way this was heading though, and wanted above all to keep it from his workforce so his office was out of the question.

-eh aye I’ve a wee office next door here. There was a lounge area upstairs from his little pleasure-dome.

-sorry, I didnae recognise ye at first Davy, how’s things wi’ you?

Dave sat on one of the brushed velvet seats and accepted a cigarette from Jim. It was just like old times, sharing and stealing each other’s fags like they used to back in their tower block days. Not wanting cigarettes to be discovered by parents, even though they must have reeked of them anyway, they each had favourite hidey-holes that they each discovered and plundered, on top of the fire escape door-frame was an obvious one. It was like finding birds eggs when you were young, brushing your hand along the top of a door frame only to discover a pack of ten No.6 with seven in it.

-not that great Jimbo, though you seem to be doing well, Dave indicated the surroundings.

Jim was discombobulated by his erstwhile friend’s manner. What was all this Jimbo about? Soundin’ like he was gettin’ wide. Just then Jim thought of the ‘recreation’ room downstairs, he wasn’t sure he’d locked it.

No reason why Dave Warren should go down there, but just to be on the safe side he thought he should go down and lock it.

-eh... I’ll get you a beer in a minute, I’ve just got to pop downstairs, be right back

-Good idea said Dave and pulled a pistol from his inside pocket

-On ye go then, I’ll follow ye down..

Katie was crying. She was sure that Geoff was aware by now that there was no way out of what he’d done. He couldn’t just let her go; no matter how much she’d pleaded with him and swore to tell no-one, to make up some story that didn’t involve him. He wouldn’t trust her though; once he let her go she could easily go back on her promise. So, it was dawning on him that either he’d have to keep her here forever and hope never to be discovered or he would have to kill her and dispose of her remains. Katie felt doomed. She smelled real bad and she was degraded. Was this some sort of punishment? Had she been such a bad person? She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. She hadn’t asked Warren to fall for her so deeply. She hadn’t expected anyone to fall for her like that, it was frightening. Such intensity, such possessiveness. Of course it was flattering, but it freaked her out as well.

And now this. Held captive in a room full of S&M what would you call it equipment, machinery by a madman who’s angry because you don’t fancy him. That was ironic. She was accused by Warren of fancying everyone, and the one man she palpably doesn’t fancy was now going to kill her for it.

Dave kicked Jim Warren down the short flight of stairs.

-aye ye need a gun though eh, Jim spat this out as he landed with a thud on the stone floor.

-that’s right Mr Warren I need a gun to bully ye back. I might no’ be the bravest creature on earth but I’m no’ fucking stupid. Ye were aye a handy bastard, at least wi’ wimps like me. Never actually saw you fight with anyone ‘proper’ actually now that I come to think of it, just wee boys two years younger than ye. But, yer right I need the gun..

Dave was kicking Warren around the wee bit of floor while aiming the pistol solidly at his head.

-D’ye want tae call my bluff then Mr Warren? Think ah’ll no’ shoot ye..?

Dave had noticed a door that was slightly open and told Warren to crawl through it. When inside he switched on the light.

What he saw took his breath away and he had to be mindful to keep Warren in check. Chains and rubber straight-jackets, clamps and muzzles, gags and blindfolds, and machinery which looked as if designed to insert and rotate; a veritable grotto of S&M apparel and contraption. Like a gymnasium for the sexual explorer.

-fuuuckkking hell! Mister Warren, what are you all about?

Warren made a mad grab for Dave’s leg which Dave repelled by hitting him a slap on the head with the butt of the gun. Warren fell back clutching his bleeding head.

-enough of that Jimbo old son. If my guess is right this room is sound-proof. No-one to hear the gunshot.

Dave took a stroll around the seductively lit room. Bondage gear, leather collars and body-suits, whips and chains.

Then it struck him.

What was the room that Geoff had built in his basement? Nobody had seen the finished product but it had been a running joke amongst the gang of Sunday lunchers ‘Geoff’s Spanking Room’ they had joked ‘Geoffrey’s little S&M paradise’.

He saw a noose-type affair quite high up on the wall above where Warren was sprawled still groggy from the blow.

-Right you..get up. Blood was tracing its way down Jim Warren’s face. Dave could see a satisfying look of real fear in his eyes.

-It may be your lucky day Jimbo. You may have helped me solve something very, very important. Now take your clothes off..!

Dave had no time to lose and he had to do this himself. If he was wrong then he alone should take the consequences, but he had a strong feeling he wasn’t wrong at all. He changed trains at Preston and was now on his way to Liverpool. Through his impatience of how slow this train was trundling he smiled at the thought of making the phone call to Jim Warren’s wife telling her where she could find her husband. That was punishment enough for him, the disgrace of being exposed as a sexual deviant. He might even kill himself although he doubted that someone as vain as Jim Warren was capable of such an act. He’d want to keep it quiet too, so any assault by Dave Warren would not be mentioned, and his wife would be getting that Caribbean holiday she’d been nagging about.

Once in Liverpool he’d got the bus along Aigburth Road and was now standing outside Geoff’s place. The lights were on and he could hear familiar voices. No time like the present he thought and banged on the front door. Geoff answered it looking surprised and a little shocked to see him, as if it had suddenly struck him that he had the object of Dave’s intense affection in his basement padlocked to the wall.

-Dave, dear boy...!

-Never mind that cuntybaws, who’s in there with you..?

-err...just Jonas and Rick

Warren pushed past Geoff and strode into his kitchen. Sure enough there were Jonas and Rick laughing. They stopped when they saw Dave. There was something in his demeanour they hadn’t seen before and they knew he was in a bad mood and in no mood for any shit.

-Right you two, Traitor one and Sleazeball two, you’ve got two choices. Fuck off immediately and remain unscathed or stay and be beaten about the place. I’ll give you five seconds to decide.

Geoff skulked toward the front door as if to try to escape.

-Geoff, get in here..!

Jonas and Rick didn’t say another word, they just put on their jackets and with a ‘see you Geoff’ they were gone.

-Right you, Dave did the ribcage nerve thing with Geoff and walked him over to a wall with his hand tightly around his throat. Geoff quickly turned an unsettling purple colour around the face and his eyes protruded like septic ping-pong balls

-When I let go of you you’re gonna take the keys from your pocket and you’re gonna open that basement room you’ve been doing up, and we’re gonna take a look at what’s in there, do you understand..?

Geoff could barely utter a wheeze but wanted desperately for the excruciating pain to disappear and to not feel as if he was going to black out, which he felt sure he was. Also; he felt a strange sense of relief that this nightmare was at last coming to an end and the impossible thought ‘maybe they won’t send for the police, being friends and all’ stole across his tortured consciousness making him almost glad to comply with Dave’s commands.

He led them both down a dark stairs to a velvet panelled door with heavy locks and bolts. He undid these and Dave shoved him inside. What Dave saw filled him with revulsion and relief in equal measure. Katie was semi-conscious and barely recognisable. She was dirty, her beautiful hair matted, a smell of excrement rose to Dave’s nostrils and Katie stared with fear and disbelief in her eyes.

Later when the police and Katie’s parents had been called, they sat at Geoff’s kitchen table, once the scene of such friendly revelry, Dave held Katie’s hand; she was smiling at him and crying at the same time. His heart went out to her, but something had changed within him and he knew he owned a new resolution. This college life was childish and he needed to get away from it. He’d let Katie get back to what made her tick, maybe she could even get her job at the college back. He was relieved to discover that he really didn’t care, just as long as he wasn’t part of it. At any rate, even if he had aspirations to possess her again, this lovely characterful girl, he’d have been instantly thwarted, because at that moment a great noise was heard in the sky, like a giant clicking his fingers, and they both knew what it meant. The great Nic, Nic Towel, computer genius with the rock star looks, had finally summoned her. At last she was to join his court; her dream had been made real.

Dave waited until the police and Katie’s parents were there to take care of her and Geoff was extracted from his ring-gag and nipple clamps and taken away, then he stole away and caught a bus back to town.

‘Back to Portobello’ he thought where he’d start life afresh.

Jim Warren’s wife found her husband as Dave had left him – silk noose around his neck and an automated anal butt plug repeatedly buggering him up the arse. He had been kept from screaming by the latex ball gag in his mouth. He was on the point of unconsciousness though his eyes had a faraway look not unlike what soldiers are said to possess when they’ve seen and experienced too much – ‘the thousand yard stare’, as they call it.

And yes, she did get her Caribbean cruise with an added bonus – it was without Jim.

The red van stayed parked opposite Scotmid’s for several weeks until it was impounded by Edinburgh City Council.

It was never reclaimed.