What Lies Within

Chapter 1

I walked in and came face to face with a big man with a big gun. The door slammed shut behind me and I knew I was trapped. There was nowhere to go. I cursed under my breath. This had all started with that bloody parcel.

It had arrived three days ago. I had just settled down to watch one of these chat show that seem to dominate the morning ratings, when the doorbell rang. It was barely ten o’clock and I couldn’t imagine who would be visiting me this early. Puzzled, I roused myself and wandered though to the front door to see who my early morning visitor could be. There was no-one there but, just as I was about to close the door again, I spotted the parcel sitting right plumb in the middle of the doormat. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with rough string. That was weird; the postman wouldn’t be here for hours yet, so I figured it must have been hand delivered. I stepped over to the stairwell and looked up and down the stairs, but there was no one in sight.

Returning to the parcel, I bent to pick it up and examined it more closely. It had definitely been hand delivered; there was no address and no stamps. Just Tom’s name hand-written on the front. I took it into the flat, not sure what to do with it. Tom hadn’t been around for a week. He just disappeared, went out one night and never came back. Not that I was worried, he’s got a bit of a track record. He would often be out all hours of the night, then spend the next day in bed. It was unusual for him to be gone this length of time, but it certainly wasn’t the first time. He would be off having fun somewhere. He had even been known to get himself into a bit of bother and do a runner. He always turned up again though, like a bad penny.

I put the parcel on the kitchen table, made myself a cup of tea, and went back to the telly. An old geezer was getting upset about whether sperm donors should be identified. I was only half watching. I mean, who cares? But I kept thinking about the parcel. What if it was important? It could be weeks before Tom came back. Maybe he’d never come back, then what? I tried to focus on the heated argument unfolding on the screen before me but the parcel kept insinuating itself back into my thoughts. It was almost calling to me, begging to be opened. I resisted as long as I could before eventually heading back into the kitchen to have another look. Maybe there was a return address.

I picked it up carefully weighing it in my hand. It felt solid, but shaking it revealed a faint rattle, like there was something loose inside. Interesting. A closer examination of the wrapping paper didn’t reveal any more clues about where it had come from. There was nothing at all. It was just plain brown paper, wrapped with string. The only mark on the paper was TOM in large letters on the front. I put it back down on the table. No, I definitively couldn’t open it.

Still looking at the parcel, I made myself another cup of tea, and went back to the telly. After resisting for a few more minutes I retreated back to the kitchen. There was no choice. It had to be opened. Picking up a knife I took a deep breath before cutting the string. As the paper fell away, I was surprised to see a Bible. I couldn’t believe it! Of all the things I might have expected to be delivered to Tom, a Bible would have been the bottom of my list. It’s not that he’s a bad man exactly, just that he and God are more like strangers. I put the Bible back on the table.

Somehow it didn’t look comfortable sitting there in our kitchen, radiating good thoughts. I felt as if I should go and wash out my mouth with soap, or say three Hail Marys or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.

A Bible.

Christ!

I wanted to pick it up, but wasn’t sure I knew I was supposed to handle a Bible. It was a big old-fashioned job, hard backed, with a kind of tooled leather cover, which seemed worn away by years of prayers. And it was thick; well I suppose it would be. I washed my hands, and then took a deep breath before carefully picking it up. It had felt pleasantly solid in my hands, but as I opened it, I was shocked to see that there was a compartment cut right out in the middle. And there, resting snugly in the hollow, lay a key. A shiver of disquiet washed over me. Destroying a Bible! That must be up there with murder and adultery. I took the key from its hiding place and looked at it. It was a big, old key. ‘Must be for a big, old lock.’ I thought. But what lock? I looked at the Bible, hoping for some clue about where it had come from. There were no notes or anything else hidden inside, just an address on the front cover. St Michael’s Chapel, Rigside Way, Partick.

All day I argued with myself about what to do. The brave part of me wanted to go to St Michael’s Chapel and see if the key fitted the door, but the sensible part kept telling me to get a grip and mind my own business. But I couldn’t stop thinking, and a million scenarios were racing through my mind. What if Tom was in some sort of trouble and this was his way of asking for help? Or what if someone else was in trouble and asking Tom for help? Or maybe there was something happening at the Chapel that someone wanted Tom to see? Maybe there were wild parties, with drink and drugs? Or maybe, maybe, maybe, a thousand maybes, but I always came to the same conclusion. I was just Tom’s wee sister, and there was no way I was able to do anything about it. No, there was no way Tom was going to need my help.

So the sensible side won, and I decided to go down the pub to see if any of the gang were there, they would know what to do. And if I did decide to go investigate the Chapel at least there would be safety in numbers.

I went into the snug, and was disappointed to find that there was no one in. Well no one except old man Rodgers and his domino buddies. As usual they looked over at me, shaking their heads and tut-tutting. They don’t approve of us. Think we’re a bunch of hooligans, just because we like to dress a bit outrageously. I could see them looking at my hair, which is currently a shocking pink. I smiled over. I know that annoys them.

Everything all right, gents? They stopped staring and went back to their game. I don’t know why they bother to come out, they just sit around looking miserable all night, I smiled at Tracey the barmaid as I turned back to the bar.

Usual is it? she asked.

I nodded assent. Any of the gang been in?

No, not so far

I took my drink and sat in the corner, facing the door.

Three drinks later, and still alone, the pull of the key was becoming stronger and I pulled it from my pocket for another look. Just a look, but the drink was giving me courage, and I was becoming convinced that I should go see if the key fitted the Chapel door. I was becoming more and more convinced that I had to do something. I had been given the Bible for a reason. Well, it was meant for Tom, but I was the one who had gotten it. And that must have been for a reason. There had to be something in the Chapel, something I needed to see. Some wrong I had to right. After all, I told myself, what could possibly happen in a Chapel? The house of God? It only took one more drink for me to convince myself that I had to go to the Chapel and find out. After all, why else would I have been given the stupid key? I finished my drink and set off.

Chapter 2

Tom looked at his watch. Not long now. He smiled to himself as he adjusted his binoculars and moved slightly to make himself more comfortable. Then he caught sight of it in the distance and his heartbeat quickened. This was why he did this job, the moment when everything comes together like this. His whole body felt tense, ready for action, as he focussed on the incoming ship. Too focussed, he hadn’t heard them creep up behind him. He hadn’t been aware of anything until the moment before they hit him over the head with a baseball bat, sending him tumbling into oblivion.

He woke up and found himself locked in what seemed to be a loading shed, with the mother of all headaches. Tentatively Tom put a finger to his head sending fresh waves of pain through his body and leaving his hand reddened with fresh blood. He tried to stand and the room started to spin alarmingly, forcing him to sit back down again until everything stopped moving.

He reached for his mobile phone to call for help but they had taken it, along with his watch and wallet. Bastards, he muttered, as he looked around his prison. The brick walls were stained with years of grime and the air had a kind of musty smell, like the room needed to be aired. Apart from a few boxes in one corner and some rags in another the shed was empty. He tried to stand again, slowly this time and was pleased that the room remained steady. He felt a bit shaky on his feet, but made his way carefully to the door. He was disappointed but not surprised to find that it was securely locked. It was a solid wood door and, despite some rotting along the bottom edge, it proved impervious to his attempts to break it down. Although the room had windows they were too high to be of any use for seeing through or for providing any means of escape. He could hear seagulls and assumed he was still down at the docks. Without his watch he had no idea of how long he had been in here, but he knew that at some point someone would come along. He had to get out of here quick. He began a more detailed search for some means of escape. The boxes in the corner were no use. They were sealed shut and he had nothing to help force them open. Whatever was in them was making them heavy, so he wasn’t able to move them closer to the windows. He had a good look around, but apart from some empty bags there was nothing else in the shed that would help him get out. They had been very careful to ensure that there was nothing that he could use to either force the door open or get up to the window. No, there was no way out so he made himself as comfortable as he could on the pile of bags to await their return.

Waiting was something he did well. He had arrived in Dundee two days ago and it had become obvious that there was something going on. It had seemed a simple enough job; investigate a fraud at a factory. Someone pilfering stock, but when he started to investigate he had found something even more suspicious. That was why he had been down at the docks. He was waiting and watching for them to start unloading the ship. He was convinced they were bringing something in on the ships, he just wasn’t sure what it was but he was determined to find out. He had been caught up in the excitement of the chase, determined to get to the bottom of what was going on and he was furious with himself for not being better prepared and having some back-up. He hadn’t even let anyone know he was going to be there. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He cursed himself for such a basic error.

It hadn’t been difficult to get information about when the next ship was due in. He got down to the docks in plenty of time so that no one would see him. Then he had picked his spot carefully up on the roof of one of the adjoining sheds. It afforded him a panoramic view of the whole area and he was confident that he wouldn’t be seen up there. He would be able to safely observe all of the comings and goings and, more importantly, see everything that was being unloaded.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the two men arrived. He heard the car first and stood up ready to face whatever was coming. The door swung open and they strode in. The first wore his arrogance like his cheap aftershave. His sharp suit fitted in all the right places, but somehow didn’t look convincing. He tapped his feet to a slow beat as he lit a cigarette and Tom couldn’t take his eyes off the black and white cowboy boots. The other was the muscle. He was small and stocky and looked as if he had borrowed his black jeans and t-shirt from a smaller brother.

Afternoon gentlemen, come to rescue me?

I don’t think so, it was the leader who spoke.

So what am I doing here?

The man moved quickly and had Tom by the throat before he could move.

You seem to have the wrong idea about how we do things around here. I’ll be asking the questions, his voice carried more than a trace of menace.

Tom brushed him off. Ok. What do you want to know?

What were you doing up there on that roof?

I was ship spotting. It’s a bit like train spotting, but you do it with ships.

Despite his size the muscle moved surprisingly quickly and before Tom could do anything to protect himself, had delivered a blow to his solar plexus that bent him double

The leader spoke again. I asked you what you were doing on the roof. You know I asked you nicely, now trust me when I tell you that you really don’t want to make us get nasty, he slapped Tom with the back of his hand. What were you doing down at the harbour?

Tom took a deep breath. Ship spotting, it’s really catching on.

The man sighed. My friend here would like nothing better than for me to let him off the leash. Is that what you really want, Tom?

Tom’s heart skipped a beat. How did this guy know his name? Guys, I don’t know what I can tell you, Tom spread his arms. I was up there just watching the ships come in.

That was when the beating had started. Despite what he had said, the leader had led the assault. Throughout it all Tom had remained focussed on the boots. He forced himself to describe them, every little detail. Silently committing every stitch and pattern to memory, using this exercise to focus his attention away from the pain of the kicks and blows raining down on his body. The boots had a long pointed toe and the leader was using it to good effect in kicking him. Tom was soon bleeding and he had been forced to lick his own blood from these boots. These obscene boots, with their pointed toes and stupid white motif. Tom tried to decide what the motif was. An initial? A symbol of some sort? He concentrated all of his attention on these boots. He wanted to make sure he would remember them. He hated them, and that hatred would keep him alive. He focussed on the white leather, tinged pink now with the blood that had seeped into the leather that he had been unable to lick clean. That had cost him an extra kick. He had heard the curse and then a pain as the sharp toecap once again connected with his kidneys.

Tom’s heart almost stopped when he saw the baseball bat, and he screamed silently in terror. Smoothie was an expert with the bat and every blow was designed to maximise pain. He could feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, but fought to stay awake. He was afraid if he succumbed, then he would never wake up.

Tom lay still on the dirty floor. He knew that he couldn’t take much more and prayed for it to stop. Then somewhere in the distance he became aware that the assault had stopped and they were standing over him talking.

I think we’ve killed him, Tom thought he could detect a trace of something in the voice. Guilt perhaps. He hoped so.

Nah, we’ve barely touched him.

They all knew that wasn’t true. They had been battering Tom for what felt like hours.

I don’t think he knows anything anyway.

We’ll leave him here in the meantime, if he dies we can deal with the body. If not, then we’ll try again.

Once he was satisfied they were gone Tom let himself drift into unconsciousness.

Chapter 3

I had a rough idea where the Chapel was, but the alcohol was impairing my sense of direction. I got off the bus a couple of stops too early, and had to wander what felt like almost the full length of Dumbarton Road. It was quite a cold night, and I regretted not having brought my thick coat with me rather than the jacket I had opted for. I pulled it a bit tighter and quickened my pace. At least there were a lot of people around. Some of them seemed to be wandering aimlessly, while others looked as though they had places to go. I looked at my watch. Half past nine. As I walked along the road, I started to sober up a bit and began to wonder whether it was the cold or fear that was making me shiver. A little bit of doubt was starting to form in my mind but I pushed it to one side and kept going.

Soon I was approaching the corner I was aiming for, and there was the side street that bore the sign - Rigside Way. I took a deep breath and looked up the narrow thoroughfare. The streetlights seemed to go on for about ten yards then petered out. I felt my nerve go again. What was I thinking about? The night was pitch black and here I was going up a strange street with no lights, to see if a key that didn’t belong to me would fit a Chapel door. Put like that it did sound stupid and I shook my head and turned around to head back down toward Dumbarton Road. But the alcohol-fuelled voice inside me wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily and it began tugging me back to my task and forcing me to turn back round again.

I made my way carefully up the street alert for any sign of trouble, anything out of the ordinary. Everything was going fine until I reached the end of the streetlights. That was when the moon decided it had had enough for the night and disappeared behind a cloud. Suddenly it was pitch black. I stood motionless. Perhaps it was a sign. The safety of Dumbarton Road was twenty yards behind me and ahead loomed only darkness. I was about to turn and go, when the cloud moved on, and the moon reappeared, bathing the old Chapel in light. It looked for all the world as if a torch was being shone on it. My heart lifted. Another sign. I swallowed my fears and approached.

My new-found enthusiasm was dampened immediately as I approached the Chapel to find a closed gate blocking my way. The gate was secured with a padlock, and there was no way my key was going to fit it. I was surprised to find my hand shaking as I reached for the padlock. ‘Oh well,’ I reasoned, ‘I tried’. Then these two inner voices started up again. ‘Look you’ve come this far, climb the fence and see if the key fits.’ ‘Oh no, its too risky, its dark, you might get hurt, go back to the pub.’ I must have stood for a good two minutes debating with myself, when a voice broke into my inner turmoil.

Everything all right miss?

I turned around and there was a bemused policeman giving me a very suspicious look. I murmured that I wanted to pray, but the Chapel was shut. Even I cringed at how lame that sounded, but he kept a straight face and told me to come back in the morning. That was the best advice I’d had all night, I nodded agreement and headed to the safety of Dumbarton Road.

I walked into the pub and was relieved to find the gang all in. It looked like it would be a good night after all.

When I woke the next morning, I would have sworn there was a man operating a pneumatic drill inside my head. As I tried to stand a wave of nausea washed over me. How much did I drink last night? I staggered through to the bathroom and wasn’t surprised to see that I looked as bad as I felt. My eyes were bloodshot, and I was as pale as a ghost. Never again, I muttered the hangover mantra, never again! I checked the cabinet to see if there was anything in there to ease my discomfort. Nothing, just a packet of plasters, and some Vicks vapour rub. I sighed and headed for the kitchen.

Even before I got there, I could feel the force of the Bible and its disapproval of my state. I didn’t need that. I picked it up and put it into a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. Taking a glass of water, I went back through to the bathroom for a shower. That would do the trick.

I set the water as hot as I could bear and winced as it burnt my skin, then switched to cold and my skin started tingling as my confused body tried to cope. My teeth were chattering as I switched back to hot and wondered if it was worth it. But I knew the answer to that. This was my fail-safe hangover cure, bursts of hot and cold water. Painful, but effective.

Fifteen minutes later I was dressed and starting to feel human again and could feel the start of the post hangover hunger pangs. I needed something solid in my stomach and only one thing would do, a fry up.

I was beginning to feel better, but that feeling slowly evaporated as I got into the kitchen. Maybe it was the influence of the Bible, but I felt as if I was seeing it for the first time. There were at least a week’s dirty dishes in the sink, and the cooker was disgusting, I couldn’t remember the last time I had cleaned it. I groaned as I took the Bible out of the drawer and, as I held it, the feelings just seemed to get stronger. I could feel it trying to force me to clean up the kitchen.

No, this wouldn’t do at all! I couldn’t keep it in the house, disturbing my karma. I quickly put it back in the drawer, and then checking I had the key, put on my coat and headed out the door. I was going to the Chapel. I was going to see if the key fitted the lock.

The Chapel didn’t look so scary in the daylight, the gate was unlocked and I could see that the main door was wide open. I took the key from my pocket and approached. My heart was pounding. What would I do if the key fitted? What would I do if it didn’t? I was lost in my thoughts and almost bumped into a man leaving the Chapel. He had on a dog collar, so I guessed he was the Priest.

Can I help you? he asked.

He gave me a funny kind of look, probably thought I was going to steal his silver. No, I’m fine thanks.

I looked at him, and he gave me the most peaceful smile. Not one of