Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller Read Online Free Page A

Jeanie. She always did look out for me.
    “ Go on then,” I said.
    So off we went to see Mr. Smee. But it was Captain Hook I was watching – tall, thick black hair, ridiculous fake beard right enough and the poshest English accent you ever heard. In Scotland a posh English accent’s all you need to be the baddie but he had the strong features too, the longish nose and chin, the booming singing voice, the swagger. I could not take my eyes off him. And that’s not merely a figure of speech.
    “ Who’s that?” I whispered to Jeanie, leaning against her on the dark pew.
    “ Mark or Mike ... something like that. Have a look in the programme.”
    I lit the programme with my phone and read through the cast list. I didn’t have to read far.
     
    Captain Hook ...... Michael Quinn.
     
    Jeanie nudged me in the ribs. “Will I ask him to come on for a drink with our Robbie after, aye, I will.”
    “ Not on my account.”
    “’ Course not.”
    When the panto finished, before I could stop her, Jeanie texted her brother to say she and I were going ahead to The Crow, did he fancy coming along and did he want to bring his pal, Hookie? About ten minutes later Robbie arrived at the pub saying Mikey was on his way, that he’d stopped to get some cash. I wondered how much longer he’d be, what he’d look like up close.
    The bar was five deep. It was so hot in there, with that hanging, too-much-information smell of bodies there always is now that you can’t smoke inside. While I tried not to watch the door, Jeanie fussed Robbie, told him he was great.
    “ Ah, get to fuck,” he said, waving her away. “Make yourselves useful will you and find somewhere to stand. I’ll get these.”
    We were about to do that when in walks Mikey, all teeth, elbowing through the crowd. He was wearing a black leather motor racing style jacket with what looked like a falcon logo on the chestand I was surprised to see he still had the silly beard on. And there were wisps of black acrylic in his eyebrows too, making fuzzy muppet eyebrows which he wiggled as he made his way over. I laughed. He joined us in the stramash, still grinning. Close up, turned out he had a rim of orange foundation at his hairline where he hadn’t washed his stage make-up off properly. Normally that would have put me off. But this wasn’t normally.
    Robbie by this point was three back from the bar but still managed to introduce us over the heads, pointing, shouting. “Jeanie, Shona, this is Michael Quinn. Mikey, this is my sister, Jeanie and her pal Shona McGilvery from The Tribune .”
    Subtle as a breeze block, Jeanie said, “I’d better help our Robbie with the swallies. What’s yours Mikey, pint?”
    “ Callie Eighty.” He gave her the thumbs up. “Cheers.”
    Off she went, leaving us to it. I didn’t know where to look, what to say. But I guess I must’ve been wanting to make an impression because in the end I closed one eye, pulled on his beard and said in a silly pirate voice, “Can’t be bothered to take your beard off, then, Cap’ain? A-hargh.”
    “ Ow,” he shouted – and grabbed both my hands.
    “ I – I – ” I slipped my hands from his, mortified. “I ... sorry ... thought it was fake.”
    “ No.” He held onto his chin. To contain the pain, I imagined. “No, it’s real.”
    “ Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ve never met a pirate before. Need to dust up my pirate etiquette ... Jim lad, pieces of eight, shiver me timbers ... what are timbers anyway, did you even wonder that? Oh God, seriously, are you all right?”
    “ I’ll live.” He was laughing, thank God. “You’re all right.”
    All right. The hissing T of a Liverpool accent. The River Mersey ran in his veins like the Clyde ran in mine. Shipyards. Docklands haunted by ghosts. I’d always had this notion that Glasgow and Liverpool were linked because of that heritage, in their souls or something. Twinned like they do with French towns. I don’t know, I’d always