4. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Cigarette smoke curls in thick white tendrils against the flat square of the window. The buildings outside, muted to grey by the shield of dark tint, blur together as they pass. He takes another drag, pulling hot smoke into his lungs and letting it cool there. The music throbs in his ears, solid and crunching distortion in the small space of the backseat. It keeps him alert, keeps his pulse from slipping too low and his eyes from becoming too unfocused as he watches his city roll by in the long shadows of approaching dusk. His other hand lies on the seat beside him. His thumb traces lazy circles on the polished leather, far slower than the frenetic rhythm of the screaming speakers. Soothing. The spiked rage of the afternoon boils down to a more manageable simmer, bubbling in his blood. He lets out his breath, smoke swirling against the glass, unable to escape. He shifts a little in his seat as the music swells a bit louder. Good. The buildings slow to a crawl outside the window, and he flicks away ashes and lowers his eyelids. He leans closer to the glass, cold on his forehead, and looks out into the clogged traffic ahead. Rush hour. Fucking perfect. A quick and clenching surge of anger, and his hand balls into a fist on the seat. He throws a sharp glance up front to the men looking back at him in the rearview mirror. They know how much he hates waiting. The driver offers a shrugged “sorry, boss” but he merely curls his lip and taps ashes into the gold-trimmed tray and returns his gaze to the dull crowds that flow along the pavements. The people outside are moving faster than the car, bags clutched tightly and eyes turned away from the sunset glaring off the shop windows. They move quickly, intent on their own business, heads down and eyes on the ground. As it should be. Schoolgirls and housewives and day laborers, all hurrying to get off the streets and back to the places they belong. All except one. Up at the corner, paused amid the current of people, a boy stands blinking into the setting sun. He shades his eyes, biting his lip as he stares at the streetsigns, and turns something small and white over and over in the hand that twitches at his side. Immediate recognition brings a scratch of nails on the leather upholstery. It’s him. He must be lost. Maybe trying to make his way down to Carntyne to get back home. Maybe trying to decide which train will take him to the address on that little white card. Maybe looking for the nearest bin to tear it up and throw it into. He doesn’t see the SUV slowly rolling towards him, and wouldn’t recognize it even if he did. The boy merely stands there, looking first down one street and then the other as the wind ruffles his mop of mouse-brown hair. And then he bows his shoulders and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans before turning to make his way down Ruchazie. He should have known. The little bastard got cold feet. Probably didn’t have a fucking clue what he was saying in there anyway. He should have known the little punk couldn’t take it. ‘Virgin’ was splattered all over him like fucking neon paint. The memory brings a silent chuckle. One push in an elevator was enough to scare him off. Pale and confused now, ambling down the pavement with one trainer still untied and the elbows of his sweatshirt black with scuffmarks. Thought he was smart, thought he’d go snooping around into other people’s business, and found out just what a fucking mistake that would be, yeah? And rightly decided he’d best duck out now. Now he’ll go home, and have a wank, and congratulate himself on the little adventure he had. Think he got away free and easy, the clever little inspector. Like fucking hell he will. “Stop.” The driver lifts an eyebrow, but his foot is already on the brake. “Boss?” “I said fucking s-stop. Now. Pull over.” A car horn blares behind them as the SUV slides out of traffic and over into the parking lane. It stops short, engine running, and the boys look at each other in confusion. Then the driver sees the figure walking obliviously their way, and he shakes his head with a near-silent whisper. “Christ, here we go.” His companion snorts, and turns the volume of the stereo down two notches. The boy is nearly outside the passenger window now. He doesn’t notice the vehicle that has pulled up beside him until the shadow of it blocks out the sun and he looks up with a small start. He pauses for a moment, eyes widening at the black and chrome, and then ducks his head to move on. The door swings open and stops the boy in his tracks. He leans back again, watching as the kid peers through the uncurling fingers of smoke and into the dark recesses of the car. He knows it will only be a moment before the boy recognizes him, and he waits for the lad’s eyes to go big and his jaw to drop. When it does, he feels his mouth go dry and he stabs out his fag in the ashtray and smiles. He was right not to wait. After the day he’s had, he fucking needs this. His fingers are already itching. The boy stares at him, wide-eyed. One hand flexes on the frame of the door. The other tugs and fidgets at the hem of his sweatshirt. A small sound falls out of his mouth -- whether it is an attempt at greeting or a plea for help is impossible to determine. They stare at each other for a long moment. He keeps his face as hooded and calm as the boy’s is open and blanching. He allows it to last only a few seconds. “Get in.” The boy looks around once, quickly, his hesitance twitching across his face. It’s a public street. If he were to run, he would be lost in the crowd forever. He could get away. He swallows once, twice, and then his eyes turn back and are caught immediately. His stare had never wavered for a moment. The boy’s eyes are a mix of blue and grey, shining wet beneath thick lashes. For a moment, they stop blinking. He could run. But he won’t. That much had been obvious from the first. The boy wipes his palms on his grimy jeans and climbs into the car. It takes both hands for him to pull the door closed behind him. The SUV swings back into traffic, and the boy nearly falls backwards into his seat. He sits there for a moment, staring at the pavement pulling away behind them, and his left hand clenches on the handle of the door. He looks at the floor, at the driver, at the dark-tinted window; clearly trying to keep his eyes off the knee cocked inches away from his own, or the hand still lying carelessly on the seat, millimeters from his leg. His hands fold together into a tight ball in his lap. His throat works furiously, lips pressed into a tight line. The sight of the boy’s Adam’s-apple bobbing over the neck of his sweatshirt makes it difficult not to lunge forward immediately, but the impulse subsides. The moment passes. He pops the doorlocks, smiling wider at the boy’s jerk of reaction, and slides down a bit in his seat. Lets his legs spread, nudge the boy’s lanky knees over to the side. Leans against the window, head in hand. He pulls his lighter from his pocket and begins tapping it idly against his knee. Not really waiting. More like expecting. Anticipating. Sure enough, within a minute the boy squares his shoulders and looks up. The determination in his face is admirable, if ill-fated. His voice is still the same raspy little squeak. “What’s your name?” He almost laughs; what escapes him is more like a short bark. The lads up front echo the chuckle and the boy’s face darkens immediately. His ears, those fucking perfect ears, flush a deep scarlet as he scowls in embarrassment. He obviously recognizes his mistake. Maybe not as stupid as he looks, then. Just used to asking questions. Many, many things are going to be learned tonight, but his name will not be one of them. No one gets to know that until it comes time to write the cheque, and many times “Cash” is a suitable substitute. And the time for asking questions is over. The boy, however, obviously hasn’t realized that yet. No sooner has his blush begun to fade than the sudden acceleration makes him turn to stare, startled, out the window. They’ve swung off Ruchazie onto the A8, roaring now through the blurring traffic, and the kid tenses as he realizes what he has sealed himself into. No landmarks, no streetsigns, no way of marking his trail. He whips his head back, panicked. “Where are we g--?” A sharp, shrill beeping, and the boy’s eyes open wide. His hand spasms over his jeans pocket, where the sound of the mobile is muted but insistent between them. Smart enough not to answer it, too afraid to ask, forehead crinkling with anxiety. The smell of uncertainty hangs between them, humid and salty. It makes his mouth water. He waits for the third ring before he nods and watches the boy scramble for the phone. This should be entertaining indeed. “Hullo?” “Geoffrey?” The boy winces at the shrill volume of the voice on the other end of the phone. He pushes back a laugh and stretches in his seat -- how utterly perfect. How fun it will be to sit here and watch the kid squirm and think up an explanation for his mum. Brilliant. He pulls out a fresh cigarette and lights up, smirking. Geoffrey. The boy’s voice is admirably light. “Mrs. Wainthropp, I was just going to check in with you.” Not his mother, then. The name is almost familiar, something someone told him the other day... “Geoffrey, where are you? Did you get lost?” “No Mrs. Wainthropp, I’m fine. I told you there was something I wanted to check out before we left, remember? I got-- distracted, is all.” Geoffrey shoots a glance out of the corner of his eye, huddles a bit closer to the phone. He does chuckle, then, puffing out around his cigarette, and leans back against the door to listen to the rest of this explanation. “You get distracted far too easily, Geoffrey. That inquisitiveness of yours will get you into trouble if you don’t pay more attention.” “Yes, Mrs. Wainthropp.” The boy’s face is quickly flushing from stark white to deep pink. The frequency with which it alternates is maddening. He wonders how long a bruise would stay livid on such intuitive skin. The voice is still harping on. “There’s investigating, and then there’s sightseeing, Geoffrey. This isn’t a vacation. Our case is finished, and we must get an early morning. It’s time to go home.” Our case? The hint of familiarity blooms into sudden recognition. Last week, when he first went to get his money from the Fisher bitch, an old woman talking to 23B... He sees the boy again, sitting scrunched up in the hallway, twitchy and out of place. I’m waiting for someone. Whipping out his wee notebook as the elevator doors closed. He really did think he was a little inspector. An investigator. Investigating him. His cigarette flares hot between his fingers, between his lips, below his eyes. Geoffrey’s head jerks up, eyes huge and scared. His mouth moves as if trying to grope for a word, an explanation, a protest. It seems that the lack of reaction only increases the boy’s anxiety. They gaze at each other in heavy silence while Geoffrey flounders weakly and he considers an appropriate method of correction. This boy’s timing is abysmally bad. After an endless pause, Geoffrey swallows slowly and says, “I know, Mrs. Wainthropp. I’m glad we got the case solved and that the police will not have to be involved. It’s good to know that’s all taken care of and it’s over now.” His eyes do not break the stare. He considers this for a moment, weighing his options against the fervent lack of guile in Geoffrey’s eyes, and decides not to throw away his earned reward just yet. Stupid as the lad obviously is, he’s also as clear and shallow as a fresh pane of glass. He smiles a bit around his cigarette, anticipating the music of shattering shards. Seeing his face, Geoffrey lets out a silent sigh and closes his eyes. “Geoffrey, are you alright? Your voice sounds a bit shaky.” “I’m fine, Mrs. Wainthropp. It’s just a bit close in here. Smoky.” “Geoffrey, you know how I feel about you stopping off in pubs while we’re on assignment.” “Yes, Mrs. Wainthropp.” Geoffrey’s hand shields the phone from the low laughter that follows the next draught of thick smoke. His closed eyes wrinkle a bit with embarrassment. “You shouldn’t stay out much later, Geoffrey. It will be dark soon and we don’t know this city that well. I’ve heard the eastern sections can be rather unsavory at times.” Geoffrey doesn’t answer. He doesn’t give any sort of reaction at all -- perhaps his attention has been diverted by the hand moving lightly up the back of his neck. The boy’s eyes fly open and he tenses to complete, motionless silence. He doesn’t wince or turn his head but his eyes follow the movement, darting to the side and then up to be caught and held fast. The phone drifts away from his face, unheeded. One finger traces along a crimson ear, trailing down a cheek already draining back to that lovely shade of leeched white, and down to the sharp corner of Geoffrey’s slack and trembling jaw. His touch is light, almost leisurely in its soft delineation, and he keeps his face just as shaded and sure. The boy stares at him without blinking and his face is already beginning to crumble into that same sweet, breathless helplessness that almost got him broken in half in the corner of that elevator. He resists the urge to squeeze his fingers closed until his nails dig bright stripes into pale, never-been-shaved flesh. Instead he merely smiles wider, supremely pleased, and draws his palm down to rest against the pulse hammering feverishly in the boy’s dark-flushed throat. “Geoffrey? Are you there, lad? Geoffrey?” His thumb strokes slowly down the curve of the boy’s Adam’s apple. Geoffrey’s eyes fall shut and he shudders under his sweatshirt. The boy’s pulse throbs against his fingers, a heated staccato that increases in tempo even as Geoffrey tries to shrink away. He flexes his fingers, slight but deliberate and the boy freezes, mouth open, breath drying up and sputtering out. "Geoffrey?” There is no need for words; no need for anything more than the drag of his thumb and the smooth fit of his fingers around the boy’s neck. No pressure; no movement at all beyond the tiny quiverings of the boy’s skin and the nearly audible pounding of the vein in his throat that is slowing to the rhythm of the thumb still quietly stroking his Adam’s apple. For one moment Geoffrey hovers, mouth slack and parted, eyes moving behind their lids. His hips shift once, slowly, spreading his knees and pushing his sweatshirt up over the swollen stretch beneath his jeans. The smell of him fills the shrinking space of the backseat and mixes with the distorted guitar still ripping from the speakers behind them. Geoffrey’s hand clenches on his thigh, carving dark trails into the denim. When it spreads out again his eyes roll slowly open and gaze unfocused into the shadows. He opens his mouth and speaks. “I’m here, Mrs. Wainthropp. Everything is fine. It’s not all that late yet. I think I’m going to go to that concert we saw the posters for, remember, the one in Kelvingrove Park? You should just have dinner without me and take an easy night.” “A concert? Geoffrey, this isn’t the time to stay out all hours. You don’t even know when the buses stop running here. How will you get back? What if you get lost? I don’t like the idea of you on the streets alone in a strange city.” “Don’t worry, Mrs. Wainthropp. It’s a public place, I know how to get around. I’m seventeen, I’ve done this plenty of times. I’ll be perfectly safe.” Still blinking into nothing, Geoffrey wets his lips. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” “Well… alright then, as you like. I don’t like it, but I’m not your mother, I can’t boss you around. You just be careful, do you hear? And don’t lollygag about when it’s over –- we’re leaving first thing in the morning whether you’re sleeping or not.” “I understand, Mrs. Wainthropp. Don’t worry about me. You needn’t wait up, either, just get some sleep. I’ll be ready to go in the morning. Have a good night, Mrs. Wainthropp.” “Alright, Geoffrey, you too. Enjoy your evening.” The mobile clicks off with a small beep, and Geoffrey’s eyes close. A long, measured breath slips from between the boy’s lips as he finally moves his hand, slides his fingers around to cup the crooked line of the boy's jaw, tilting his face up until he opens his eyes again. They are clouded to a dark smoky blue, but still blinking much too quickly. “What a talented little liar you are -- Geoffrey.” His sneer sharpens the word to a prickling jab. It has the desired effect. The boy’s body stiffens further, knees coming together with his hands balled atop them. His cheeks flush pink at once and his brow knits with what almost looks like annoyance. His jaw doesn’t tremble and his voice doesn’t crack. “When I have to be.” It’s a little thing, this spark of would-be bravery, but it’s as appetizing as it is amusing. He lets the boy go and leans back comfortably in his seat, watching it weaken and sputter under his smile. It’s the most satisfying part of his job, and he stubs out his cigarette at the same moment the boy’s eyes begin to go wet and smothered again. How delicious the ashes of it will taste on his skin. He leans on his elbow, flicks a bit of lint off the point of his collar while he lets the boy squirm in silence. Let him dwell a moment on exactly what he’s done, and how readily he did it. Eventually he looks up and drains enough of the smile from his eyes to make the boy go white again. “I hope you’re not trying to be smart, boy.” “I’m not –- I didn’t –- she doesn’t –-" The words tumble out too fast in a voice that’s too high, and Geoffrey clamps his mouth over them. He continues without acknowledging. “Because if you were trying to be smart, you’ve managed to fuck it up quite nicely already. Smart little boys do not end up in your particular situation. Smart little boys know better than to think they can ever hope to fuck around with me and not pay for it. You don’t think that you can fuck around with me, do you boy? You don’t think that for even a moment, do you?” The boy is shaking now without pretense. “No, no, I swear, I’m not, I just want...” “Want what, Geoffrey?” Geoffrey’s voice trails off into silence. His eyes waver and then drop to the floor. He does not speak again. Perfect. He can feel his fingers beginning to tingle, and curls his hand into a fist behind his head. There is a lurching shift as the SUV swings off the highway. Geoffrey’s head jerks up and turns to his window, where the A8 signs fade behind them in the last rays of the sunset. He twists to look forward into the small lane ahead. The car bounces and jostles along the rough gravel road, narrow between the stark rows of boxcars and smokestacks. The boy’s eyes grow round, his head craning and his hand moving to the handle of his door. They turn into the last drive on the lane just as the sun sinks into the sea of concrete. The carpark is empty, of course, and the few unbroken windows of the warehouse shine black behind their bars. The car pulls up to the padlocked side door and stops with the engine still running. The music is abruptly turned down. Geoffrey looks at the building looming in front of him, his brow knitting and his hand curling on the door handle. He glances up front, to where the boys watch him without expression in the rearview mirror. The driver shoves the gearshift into neutral and crosses his arms. Geoffrey swallows and bites his lip. The doorlocks pop up like a gunshot, and he jumps and stares down at his white-knuckled hand wrapped around the handle. He doesn’t move. A sudden stab of anger spikes through him, dissolving his amusement. The moment for turning back passed long ago, and all spare chances were tossed the moment Geoffrey’s hand touched the open door on Ruchazie. He will not wait for this any longer. He fucking hates waiting. And he absolutely, positively will not be doubted twice in one day. Absolutely fucking not. “Get out,” he says. Geoffrey turns his head, looks at him for a second longer, and gets out of the car. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [parts 5 & 6 to come]