43

When Peters asked, no, commanded Ale to allow Simon Davis to go home, it was all I could do to keep my hands away from his throat.

I push my clenched fists into my trouser pockets and hold them there with all the strength I can muster. Ale looks at me as she leaves the room, offering a what-can-you-do shrug.

‘How the fuck did you ever get this job, Peters?’ I ask. I might even have sprayed some saliva over him.

He’s suddenly aware that he’s alone in the room with me and backs out.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, aware that any response from me right now would be excessive. ‘Got to see a man about a dog.’ I brush past him and leave the room.

* * *

I’m breathing like an untrained marathon runner on the home strait. I somehow make it out the car park without assaulting anyone. But I do collect a lot of strange looks.

My neck heats. My heart beats a supercharged metronome against my ribs. Anxiety has narrowed my line of sight into a thin band of awareness. It’s like I’m looking in on myself, and I can’t affect what I’m doing.

Where has this come from? One moment I’m speaking to a colleague. The next, something switches, and I’m in full panic attack mode.

My next moment of awareness and I’m knocking on a tall, dark wooden door. It’s the church. And the door is locked. Who locks a fucking church door in the middle of the day?

I wait to hear the priest’s approaching footfall. Nothing.

I slide down the door until I’m sitting on my arse. Remember the breathing exercises. Focus on the in breath. Follow the exhalation. I imagine I’m inside the cool of the church and under the benevolent smile of the young priest.

Aww, man. How far have you fallen, McBain?

But it works. A little. My pulse has slowed to a jackhammer and my vision is restored. I breathe deep. In for a count of nine and out for nine.

This has to stop, McBain. This is no way to live. I don’t get fucking panic attacks.

All evidence to the contrary, you fanny.

Peters just followed protocol and his own internal dickhead rules and didn’t really deserve the kicking that I was desperate to give him.

I can’t believe that I’m reacting like this. This isn’t me. And if I’m being honest, Peters isn’t the issue. It’s Leonard. Missing him by hours. Can’t fucking believe it. Is he psychic or something? Did he know we were coming for him?

A memory of my last visit to hospital just last year. I’d been stabbed in the arse by the deranged Moira Shearer when I acted to save the wee boy she’d kidnapped. Some important veins were cut apparently. The wounds were deep, and coming out of the fog of painkillers a familiar face hove into view. Leonard. And I was the only one who saw him. Or was it a drugged-up imagination?

No, it was him. He was keeping tabs on me then.

Is he still?

He must be. That leopard has indelible spots. And the fact is, he knows where I work. He can watch me on TV news. It wouldn’t prove too difficult to watch my movements.

I knock my head against the door. Calm down, McBain. You’re just being paranoid.

Just in case, I stand and walk back down to the street. Look left and right. Examine all of the people around me. An acne-scarred youth in a grey suit. A blonde beanpole in a red flowery dress and black leggings. A bald guy in faded jeans and dark blue casual jacket hoisting his backpack on to the other shoulder.

See, McBain. Nobody here who wants to kill you.

I hold my hands out in front of me. Hold them steady. Well, steadier.

Back to the breath.

In.

Out.

Can’t go back to the office. I pull out my phone and dial a number.

‘Converse,’ says a familiar voice.

‘Kenny, it’s Ray.’

‘Aye, Ray, I know. These modern phones have a thing where the name and number of the caller show on the screen.’ He laughs at his own joke. An alien sound to my ears. People still laugh?

‘Smartarse. What you up to? Want to play hookey?’

‘Sorry, buddy. Crime never sleeps. People to do, things to see.’

‘Round ye.’ I hang up.

Ray nae pals. Any other friend I have is in the police. They’re kind of busy.

I cough out a barking noise. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to laughter. This is what you’re reduced to, Ray. A priest, some polis or one of Glasgow’s most notorious.

Or Maggie.

I can’t. I’m just going to let her down. I recall what Kenny said. She has to be the one to say no, don’t you say it for her.

That face. That smile. The way she looks at me. Accepting. Whatever I say and do is alright by her. I don’t deserve her. I think of the people in my life. Clever, brave and resourceful, the lot of them. So why did they choose me? I’m letting them all down. They’d be better off without me.

My throat swells. Tightens.

Don’t fucking cry, ya big Jessie.

I clench my face against the emotion that threatens to swamp me.

I take a step forward. And another. It’s just like the breathing thing, isn’t it? One after the other.

The pavement is grey. Scarred with old gum and cigarette ends. I move over it, lost in thought and barely mindful of the noise of the city around me. Then, a phone rings. A girl laughs. Someone crunches his way through a bag of crisps. The rustle and bustle of life is all around me, and I feel removed from it all. Like a patient freshly anaesthetised, on the countdown from ten.

Central Station is on my left. A line of people, all of them wearing jackets in primary colours, waiting for the airport bus. Seems everyone but me has a purpose.

The bronze statue of the fireman. A city’s show of gratitude to the firemen who have died in service. I reach out a hand. Fingertips brushing his shoulder, hoping for a transfer of strength. Feel nothing but the indifference of the inanimate. Just like the people who are brushing past me on their rush to put meaning into the meaningless.

Past the Hielanman’s Umbrella. The old name always fascinated me. There’s no brolly here. It’s a bridge taking trains into Central Station from the south and west, over the top of Argyle Street. Tall windows with green painted frames. Under which those seeking escape from the Highland Clearances would shelter from the rain they must have thought had followed them on their long walk from the north.

And on down past the business section of the town and to the River Clyde, and I’ve walked back almost to the spot I started. The tall buildings here seem to amplify the sounds of the traffic, and it feels like a blessing when I reach the river. The water is high and dark. Oil spilled by the nearby water taxi leaves a trail that’s part rainbow, part dust and scum.

I lean on the railings and bend over to get a closer look. Feel the pull of the fall. If I just stretch up on to my toes. Lean forward a little more. It will be like there was no intention involved. A simple case of overextension. I’m not a good swimmer. It would be over in minutes.

Don’t they say that death by drowning is a peaceful way to go? Once the initial panic is over and death is accepted.

Then, finally, I would get peace from being haunted and hunted by my own thoughts.

Peace.

I knock my forehead with a fist. I just want the shit in my head to stop.

Checking to my left I see a stand for a lifebuoy. It’s empty. A victim of vandals. The lack of replacement probably the fault of austerity. All of which is helpful. Means no passing Samaritan will be able to help save me.

A dark-haired woman runs past me. She’s tall, lean, head-to-toe in lycra, and she has the ungainly grace of the practised but awkward. See. Anybody can run. All it takes is the effort and the right, tight clothing.

I feel the bite of the railing’s edge on my forearms and push myself back onto my heels. Away from the water’s invitation. I lean forward again, rest my forehead on the railing. Feel its chill. What are you doing, McBain? Could you?

A siren in the distance. Part of any city’s aural backdrop.

Something off to the left catches my eye. From here I can’t exactly tell what’s going on. People running. There’s nothing strange about that in this city. Seems every other person goes for a jog in their lunch break. But these guys didn’t get the joggers memorandum. They’re wearing jeans and jackets.

Jesus fuck. You can’t even contemplate topping yourself in this city without being interrupted by some idiots. Fuck them. Let them kill each other. Might mean one less scumbag for us to deal with.