The Lost Girl: a gripping psychological thriller by Mark Gillespie

Author:Mark Gillespie [Gillespie, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkubator Books
Published: 2024-02-21T00:00:00+00:00

29

MARGO

It’s almost midnight as the casino bouncers throw Mike onto the street.

It’s gentle as far as these things go. The two hulks in black suits working the door aren’t being overly aggressive, although they are standing a little too close to Mike, blocking the casino entrance in a way that looks like, I dare you. Mike won’t dare. He isn’t a wild-eyed drunk. His hands are up. Looks like he’s apologising. Most likely, telling the bouncers that he’ll be on his best behaviour if they’ll only let him back in. The body language is classic. Submissive. Someone who doesn’t want to be perceived as a threat.

One of the hulks shakes his head. Mike talks some more, then, with a casual shrug, gives up. He descends the steps and sort of falls off the kerb, his feet narrowly missing the camber as he lands on the road. He’s a drunk mimicking sober. Hands shoved in his pockets. There’s an indifferent expression on his face even though he’s swaying from side to side. Mike’s usually so well groomed but his shirt is hanging out at the waist. He glances at his big gold watch about three times, as if not sure what to do with himself. He laughs at some private joke. Then, the hands go back in and out of the pockets.

People stare. They’re starting to recognise him.

I get up, leaving my coffee on the counter. I push the café door open and feel the drizzle on my face as I walk outside. Traffic check, then I hurry across the street. Mike’s on wobbly feet in the middle of the Broomielaw as I grab him by the arm. He spins around at warp speed. Looks at me and there’s no recognition in his eyes. In fact, it looks like he’s about to yell all kinds of obscenities at me. That’s the street kid, the one buried under the expensive clothes and jewellery.

Then, a flicker of recognition.

“Margo?”

“Hi, Mike.”

He looks around in a panic, as if expecting to see Sophie standing across the road. Just the thought of it makes him look sober again. “What are you doing here?”

“C’mon,” I say, dragging him away from the oncoming traffic. Some of the cars slow down for us. Others beep their horns and whizz past.

“You need coffee,” I tell Mike as I steer him towards the pavement.

A van driver blares his horn at us as we cross the street. Hand gestures are made on both sides. Mike’s about to yell something but I lock my arm tight around his and escort him off the road. I feel the eyes of Glasgow all over us.

We hurry into the café. The light from the ceiling feels like an attack.

I send Mike to a table in the corner and leave him there while I order two black coffees. I’m flying on caffeine and adrenaline. Might as well keep the wings flapping.

There’s a small scattering of customers. Glasgow’s lonely souls. Fortunately for us, most of them are lost in their phones and paying no attention to anything else going on.

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