Chapters (39)
She sprinted up the hill and pushed past the police who lined the square. She bashed through the ever-thicker counter-flowing placards, some of which were bumping into each other now, and ran into the foyer. Macdowall’s event was advertised on the screens in the corners: SOLD OUT.
Mary flashed her ID and said with great importance: ‘Let me through. Let me through. My name’s Mary Shields. I’m Liam Macdowall’s supervising officer.’
‘Who?’ The teenage gatekeeper body-blocked her. She almost fell over.
‘I supervise Liam Macdowall’s life licence.’
He looked at her as if she was speaking Russian. ‘Have you got a ticket?’
Mary barged through into the body of the festival and ran round the boardwalk till she found the venue. The huge marquee was packed. People were standing at the back, and several journalists, as well as Derek McLaverty, buzzed round the entrance. The audience members were chatting and fidgeting, and the stage was empty.
‘Where is he?’ she asked Derek.
‘Well if it isn’t Mary,’ Derek said.
‘Where’s Liam?’
‘He’s coming. He’s in the loo. Why? Something wrong? Why are you here?’
‘Where are the authors’ toilets?’ Mary asked.
Derek and a few others followed her as she ran to the tent across the boardwalk.
Inside the yurt, food and wine and cutlery were laid out. This must have been where Macdowall was being served when she rang earlier. Outside there was a pretty smokers’ area for writers and festival officials. In the corner sat a small Portakabin labelled: Authors’ Toilets. Mary ran into the men’s.
Two festival officials were already in there. Derek followed Mary inside.
‘He said he had a sore stomach, so we left him to it,’ said one. ‘I think he might have fainted.’
The end door was closed.
‘Liam? Liam, are you in there?’ She bent down to look under the door, but there was no space, only something dark.
‘LIAM!’ Mary banged at the door, then kicked it, but it was no use.
Derek pushed Mary aside to kick with his male foot, which he hurt in the process. The door did not budge.
‘Get someone strong!’ she ordered. ‘Call 999.’
She kicked the door once more, but kickboxing wasn’t going to be the thing that Mary would be remembered for. As she kicked a third time, she already knew how she’d be remembered. Not by little Vanny and the sunglasses, or singing, or stand-up comedy or running, but by a toilet cubicle.
A thick pool of blood oozed out when the door opened. On the floor was Macdowall’s satchel, an empty bottle of red, a phone, and an empty packet of antidepressants. On the toilet was Macdowall, his wrists gouged with a dinner knife, his eyes open. On the wall behind him, in thick blood, Macdowall had scrawled an enormous letter C.
PART TWO