Gatecrash

By Colin Galbraith

Matt Sloan is an average student. He shares a flat in Edinburgh, attends lectures and seminars, and at the weekends he parties to excess. Without any responsibilities, Matt’s life is free and a whole lot of fun.

That is until one Monday morning when he wakes up after a particularly heavy weekend and can’t remember who he is. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t recognise anyone, his best friend has disappeared, and he’s now sporting a six-inch scar on his back.

As Matt recuperates he tries to remember what happened but his life begins to unravel and fall apart around him. Out of control and out of luck, Matt starts to learn that some stories and people from his past are best left there. But Matt keeps digging and ends up embroiled in a deadly game of cat and mouse.

When you can’t remember who you are, how do you know who you can trust?

PRAISE

“[Galbraith] is a very talented writer. Consider me a fan!” —Jeff Rivera

“Move over Ian Rankin - there's a new boy in town.” —Grant T. Mason

“Galbraith is a daring writer who isn't afraid to explore.” —Tom Olbert

“Galbraith is a truly gifted author.” —Teagan S. Boyd, (Book Wenches)

“A brilliant author!” —Nadine Tomlinson.”

“Galbraith's work is lyrical, brilliant, with a mix of emotion and humour.” —M.I.S Online

“An amazing author, who writes gripping thriller crime novels” —June Louise Laurenson

“He's one of those writers who can combine talent and skill with humor and professionalism.” —Devon Ellington

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin Galbraith
• Release date: Jul 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244011505

Colin Galbraith

Colin Galbraith was born in Paisley in 1973 and raised in Bridge of Weir. After attending the Open College of the Arts, he began writing seriously in 1999. He lives in South Queensferry.

Book preview

COPYRIGHT STATEMENT

Gatecrash is Copyright © 2017 by Colin Galbraith

Cover Art is copyright © 2017 by Colin Galbraith and Smashing Press

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Smashing Press Production

Smashwords Edition

Distributed by Smashwords

ISBN: 978-0-244-01150-5

First Edition - July 2017

www.colingalbraith.co.uk

CONTENTS

Copyright

Also by Colin Galbraith

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Colin Galbraith was born in Paisley in 1973 and raised in Bridge of Weir. After attending the Open College of the Arts, he began writing seriously in 1999. He lives in South Queensferry.

Sign up to the Colin Galbraith Crime & Thriller Writer Mailing List for special offers, exclusives and probably some free stuff!

http://eepurl.com/dkIVBD

ALSO BY COLIN GALBRAITH

Novels

SLICK

GATECRASH

HUNTING JACK

Novellas

GREENER IS THE GRASS

Paranormal

STELLA

BACCARA BURNING

(Note: Both available as one-book format)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would not have come to life if it were not for the support, help and inspiration from the following:

Amanda Galbraith, for being the best Research Assistant I ever had as well as the most amazing and supportive wife;

Robert J. Burdock from RobAroundBooks.com for being the inspiration for Professor Burdock;

The author and retired Police Inspector, Kevin N. Robinson, whose books on British SIOs and policing were extremely valuable;

Stevie Ward for once again casting his expert eye over my prose;

Graham Hewson for acting as a vital safety net;

Frances Macaulay Forde for being an unexpected inspiration;

Tesco Cafe in South Queensferry;

Rankin's Cafe in North Queensferry;

Finally, the music I listened to while writing this novel was the playlist of Mogwai’s concert from Glasgow Barrowland on 20 June, 2015.

DEDICATION

For my wife and soulmate Amanda.

Only through her constant nudging, gentle guidance and never-ending support

has this book finally seen the light of day.

I owe you everything.

GATECRASH

CHAPTER 1

One Monday Morning in March, Edinburgh

The pain hit him before he opened his eyes. Every muscle ached and his head thumped as though his brain was bursting out of his skull. His back felt like it was being torn apart as he tried to move, his muscles crying out as his body resisted every movement with a wave of agony. He stopped trying to move and realised he was shivering and soaking wet, and as he forced open his eyes it dawned on him he was lying in a shallow bath, his body partly submerged in shallow ice-cold water. He looked around the bathroom; he was alone and recognised nothing.

He craned his neck to try and stretch out the pain, scanning the room through narrow eyes, moving his head only so much as to survey the bleakness of his situation. It was a small bathroom with light blue painted walls and cracked white tiling around the bath. The sink was surrounded by a selection of half-used toiletries around the base and the toilet was stained yellow; the whole room needed a clean. To his left, sellotaped to the wall, was a scribbled note:

You are advised not to move.

Dial 999 and wait.

What the fuck? Was this someone’s idea of a joke? He returned his attention back to himself. Slivers of vomit floated in the water like jetsam around his body, some of it having stuck to his t-shirt like some new fangled red and yellow indie design. Lifting his arms to the edge of the bath, he felt as though his sides wanted to split open, the skin around his body stretching; a skin that didn’t feel like his own. A searing pain shot through his back. He tried to feel around to the source of the pain but he couldn’t reach that far without feeling as though he was going to pass out. He gasped and retched, spitting out dribbles of acidic bile that had forced its way into his throat, only to drip mutely down his chin. He pulled in his legs. The sudden backwash of cold water over his body forced a sudden intake of air into his lungs. He paused, waited for the water to settle, then slowly brought his knees up as far as he could.

This was a cold like he'd never experienced. It was beyond cold, like being in a realm of suspended existence where only his brain was functioning just enough to keep him alive. Something primal screamed inside his head to get out of the bath before he froze to death despite what the note said, so he lifted a leg and pushed himself up against the side of the bath tub, managing to hoist himself up onto the side. He pulled his leg over and pressed his foot onto the floor. The pain across his back and shoulders began to swell immeasurably and his body started to tingle. He paused to get his breath back and through the fogginess of his brain came the questions: where the fuck was he and what the hell was going on?

A bright sun shone through the frosted glass of the window sending a single ray of light onto the bathroom floor. He looked at it and wished it meant something, then wondered what the time was. Where was his watch? Did he own one? By the look of his wrist is felt like he did but that it was missing. He looked around and noticed an old Motorola mobile phone lying on the floor by the bath, one of the old flip-open ones. Why had he left it there? Was it even his? Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure if he even had one. He picked it up and looked at the screen: twenty three missed calls. He put it in his pocket and limped over to the radiator on the far wall and lifted one of the towels, using it to get some warmth back into his arms and body.

A small mirrored cabinet on the wall caught his attention. It squeaked as he wiped it clean, his face becoming clearer in the reflection as though he was peering back at himself looking for an answer to a question he had yet to discover. There was a large bruise on the side of his face, and leading from a gash in the side of his head blood had dried into his hair. He looked deeper into his eyes: it was like meeting someone new, like looking through a window to see another person’s face staring back. Slowly, his features familiarised in his brain: his black tousled hair, his wide dark eyes and the small scar just below his left ear. He touched it and he knew he wasn’t dreaming. He was here and he was in agony, but his brain hadn’t quite caught up with him yet.

Party, he whispered, eyes fixated on his reflection. Must’ve been a party.

Somewhere in the locked recess of his memory he recalled being at a party. It showed itself momentarily through the fog in his brain; flashes of colour, loud music, lots of bodies moving in unison. It all seemed to fit. It was also the most logical answer to how he felt this morning. He must’ve taken things too far and now he was paying the price with a monster hangover. Yes, that was it, he'd probably gone overboard with the jellies and mixed them with vodka or something equally as stupid. Then he'd taken a daft turn and ended up in a bath with his clothes on, probably fallen over and battered his head while he was at it. That would certainly explain the pulsating headache. And top it all off some smart arse has taped a message to the wall as a practical joke.

Must’ve been a party.

He wrapped the towel around his shoulders and paused, listening intently. There were no other sounds from anywhere in the house — or was it a flat? He crept further towards the door but the burning sensation in his back reduced him to a pathetic limp each time he stepped forward.

There was no handle so he pulled at the hook on the back of the door and pulled it open, allowing him to poke his head out between the gap. He was met with an equally cold and musty hallway; it wasn’t anywhere he recognised. The hall had several closed doors leading from it but the one directly across from him was lying open allowing him to see through to the pile of clothes lying at the end of an empty bed.

Along a bend in the corridor to his right looked to be the main entrance, a large wood and glass door covered with a metal frame. To his left another door lay slightly open through which he could make out the faded white of a 1970’s kitchen unit and brown vinyl flooring. Further on, behind closed doors, lay other rooms and in the middle, a flight of stairs leading upwards.

The bathroom window rattled behind him as the wind outside picked up and breezed in through the gaps. The house seemed hollow and large, an empty shell, and he suddenly felt very exposed.

Hello? he said. His voice echoed through the hall. Is anyone there?

He stepped into the hall leaving a trail of wet footprints and blood in his wake and entered the bedroom. He poked his head around the door of the room opposite, confident he was alone. The bed in the corner looked badly in need of a clean, the sheets that once adorned it lay in a heap at the end. Posters of Anthrax and AC-DC were pinned to the far wall, and next to the bed was a small stool on which several empty cups had gathered waiting to be cleaned, and a bedside alarm clock showing the time as 12:23pm.

A picture frame on the floor next to the bed took his interest so he sat on the bed to pick it up and rest himself. It contained two pictures lined side by side: the left one a picture of a young boy standing in a football strip proudly holding a silver trophy, the right hand picture the same boy only older, a teenager by the look of it, standing next to an older man and woman both smiling as they held a baby in heir arms. He recognised the boy in both pictures from face he had seen in the bathroom mirror moments before.

That’s me, he said to himself. What the fuck?

He dropped the picture on the bed as the sensation of an imminent wave of vomit surged through him. The image of his parents holding the baby girl looked back at him; permanent smiles from a piece of paper from another time. He felt he had let them down somehow and as it dawned on him he was sitting in his own bedroom, he vomited violently onto the floor, the tearing sensation in his back returning with each retch and a sweat forming on his face. Gasping for breath and with saliva dripping from his chin, he kept his eyes on the photograph. It held no other memories, no recognition.

His shoulders and chest ached as though being compressed by something far heavier and he fought to gain a breath. He coughed up more bile onto the carpet, wiped his mouth, then sat on the side of the bed, noticing splurges of blood in the bile and in the wet footsteps he had left on the carpet. Not good, he thought. His head swam uncontrollably and he tried to concentrate, to stop the dizziness by sheer willpower but it was useless. It consumed him in its centrifugal strength and he wanted to lie down. The bed seemed a friendly place to be and he thought about curling up into a ball, but then he remembered the struggle and pain he experienced the last time he had attempted to stand up.

His right pocket started vibrating to the sound of a digital tune. He pulled out the mobile phone and looked at the screen again. It read Kyle calling. He was sure he didn’t know anyone called Kyle but then there had been twenty three missed calls prior to this so figured it might be important.

He pressed the green button. Hello?

Matt? Is that you? the voice said.

He paused, watching as more bloody bile dripped from his chin and gathered on the carpet at his feet. I think so, he said. Does it sound like me?

The voice on the other end laughed. Yeah, mate. You sound a bit different, though. Are you okay? I’ve been calling you.

I think so. I’m just feeling a bit sick, that’s all. Who’s this?

Stop kidding around, Matt, the voice said. It’s me, Kyle. Where the hell are you anyway? You were supposed to meet me for lunch but I’ve been waiting here for half an hour.

I’m, eh, at home.

You don’t sound very sure, said Kyle.

Who did you say you were again? said Matt.

Are you winding me up?

Why would I do that?

Kyle’s voice became audibly concerned. It’s Kyle Barclay, your flat mate, your mate from Uni, where you should be right now. I’ve been calling you for ages and now you don’t show up for lunch, so if you’re mucking me around then cut it out because you’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.

Okay, said Matt, taking his word for it. Sorry.

There was an awkward silence.

"You do remember me, don’t you? said Kyle. I mean, you were kidding?"

Yeah. I think so.

What are you studying? said Kyle.

What d’you mean?

At Uni. What course are you on?

Matt felt a frustration rising in him when he knew he couldn’t answer. At university? he said, stalling.

Yeah, at Edinburgh Uni. What course?

I — I — I’ve a bit of a hangover, mate. Can we do this another time?

Jeez, Matt! Psychology; you’re a psychology undergrad. What the hell has happened to you?

I don’t know. I just woke up. I think I might have taken things a bit too far last night.

Where were you last? said Kyle. Were you out with Damian?

Who’s Damian?

Fuck this, I’m coming over, said Kyle. I need to go get my van but stay where you are, I’ll not be long. He hung up.

Matt placed the phone back down and stared at it. Then he looked at the bile splattered carpet, the picture of himself as a young lad, and then at the face of the innocent baby in his parents’ arms. None of it meant anything.

This was Hell all right.

#

Matt heard someone at the front door. It opened and then closed again; someone was inside. Matt strained as he picked himself up off the bed and limped through to the hall.

Who is it? he shouted.

It’s me, Kyle.

Matt limped round to face him. You’re Kyle?

Kyle nodded.

How do I know it’s you?

Because I let myself in with my own key. Kyle switched on the hall light to brighten the place up. His eyes widened as he surveyed the weary sight of his friend standing before him. Christ! What the fuck has happened to you? You look like shit.

Like I said, I just woke up.

"What did you get up to last night?"

Em, well that’s the thing —

Stop there, said Kyle and pointed through to once of the other rooms. Tell me through here. Save me standing here like a prat.

Yeah, sorry, said Matt and stepped back to allow Kyle through. He followed him through into the living room; he seemed to know where he was going which he found reassuring.

The room was tall, open and fresh, with two leather chairs and a matching couch set into the large bay window. Above the fireplace was a large wall-mounted mirror, and set into the rear of the room was a dining table and chairs littered with pizza boxes and ash trays.

Kyle took a seat on the couch. Matt stood in the centre of the room and looked down at him.

You’re limping, said Kyle.

Yeah. I know.

How come?

Matt shrugged and readjusted the towel he had placed around his shoulders.

Okay, said Kyle. Then start from the beginning. Why are you so wet?

I woke up in the bath.

You what?

I woke up in a freezing cold bath, said Matt.

With all your clothes on?

Aye, said Matt. Recalling the event was making the taste of vomit stronger on the back of Matt’s tongue and he feared he might throw up again.

Wouldn’t you rather sit down to tell me this?

I’d rather not, he said Matt, leaning on the mantle piece. It hurts to stand and sit.

Kyle crossed his legs and frowned. So you woke up in the bath with all your clothes on?

Matt nodded. I feel like shit, too. I think I might have been mixing last night.

Mixing what precisely? said Kyle, raising an eyebrow.

I don’t know. What do I normally drink?

You usually take more than just drink, said Kyle, concern growing on his face. Or you’ve been known to anyway.

Drugs?

I can’t remember the last weekend I didn’t hear you talk about your latest trip, Matt. There was a paternal tone about his voice like a disappointed father chastising his adult child. Who were you out with last night?

Don’t know.

Was Damian with you?

That’s twice you’ve mentioned him, said Matt. Any chance you could tell me who he is?

Kyle looked shocked. He’s only your best mate. He’s at Uni with us, lives in that room through there. You grew up with the guy — best friends all the way through High School — you really don't remember him?

I didn’t remember you, did I?

But you do now?

Kind of. Mostly. I don’t know, a bit, yeah.

For fuck's sake, Matt. You must have fried your brain or something. How many pills did you take? I’ve told you already that stuff is dodgy as hell, but you never listen. I knew something like this would happen.

Matt raised his arm and flicked Kyle’s concern away. Enough with the moral lecture, okay?

Matt, don’t you get it? said Kyle, sliding forward to sit on the edge of the couch. You’ve fucked your brain — frazzled it — that can’t be good, mate whichever way you want to look at it.

Matt turned around to look at himself in the wall mirror. "It feels like it. I can’t remember anything. I found a picture. I think my parents are in it. And a baby. Might be my brother or sister.

In the same frame as a picture with you holding a football league trophy?

That's the one.

Yeah, they're your parents. And the baby is your wee sister, Laura. Don't you remember them either?

Matt shook his head despondently. I’m fucking freezing and aching and I’ve been sick with blood, and there’s only bits and pieces in my head. I'm pretty sure I was at a party last night, that much I do remember.

Yeah, but where and who with is what we need to figure out if we’re going to find out what you took and how you ended up like this. I think you might need to head over to the Royal to get checked out.

The hospital? said Matt. Wouldn’t it be best to give the the drugs a chance to get out of my system first?

Kyle looked out the window and exhaled loudly. Probably, he said. This is fucked up. I find you here soaked through and suffering from amnesia, and to make matters worse Damian hasn’t been back to the flat either. I'm not the only one wondering where you both were by this morning, by the way.

I don’t understand, said Matt. Who was wondering?

Just people — friends! People at Uni asked me this morning if I knew where you two were. I thought maybe you’d gone off with some girl or something. Damian mentioned you’d met someone called Jane from Leith or something?

Don’t think I know a Jane, said Damian.

Matt struggled to compute what his friend was saying. Wait a minute. Why would I be at Uni on a Saturday? Is that normal?

Kyle's face whitened as the full horror of the situation gripped him. Oh my God, he said. We’re talking about the same party.

What d’you mean? said Matt.

"This is totally fucked, man, said Kyle, now back on his feet with his hands firmly planted on his head. And I mean totally fucked!"

Stop the riddles and just tell me what you’re talking about.

What day is it? said Kyle.

Saturday, said Matt. It’s Saturday because I was at a party just last night.

Jesus Christ, mate. It’s Monday afternoon. You’ve been AWOL since Friday night and so has Damian. You wake up in a bath today all freaked out and wet, but where the hell is he? What the fuck have you two gone and done now?

The reality began to seep into Matt’s dazed mind. I don’t understand any of this, he said, and turned to sit down on one of the chairs. He was beginning to feel sick again and needed to get to ground and close his eyes for a moment. I just don’t understand.

What’s that on your shirt? said Kyle.

Where?

On the back of your shirt. It looks like blood. Are you bleeding? You’re bleeding all down your back, mate.

I don’t think so, said Matt. There was some blood in the bath but it was from my sick. He tried to twist round but the burning in his back was too much. He reversed up to the mirror and sure enough, the back of his t-shirt had a large patch of blood oozing through the material.

Take your top off, said Kyle, holding his arms out to help him.

Why?

Just take it off, said Kyle, and helped Matt remove his shirt.

Matt looked at Kyle’s face in the mirror. He looked as though he was hoping to find an easy answer but only managing to display the paleness that deep worry can bring. Suddenly, his blank gaze was replaced by a horrified stare.

What is it? demanded Matt. What d'you see? Am I cut? Have I been stabbed?

You better look for yourself, said Kyle, and picked up a small face mirror from the table and held it in front of him so he could see the reflection.

Matt angled his head and stared at what he saw: a swollen ten-inch scar on his lower back held together by a series of crude black stitching. Blood seeped from the wound, the area immediately surrounding it heavily bruised. He began to shake.

Matt, said Kyle, and held out his hands. Matt!

Matt’s legs gave way and he landed hard on the wood panelled floor. In the distance he could hear Kyle shouting for him, but the blackness enveloped him quickly, and soon he was gone.

CHAPTER 2

Two Weeks Earlier

The lecture hall was full to bursting and had been for at least ten minutes when Matt Sloan wandered in and interrupted the proceedings.

Late again, Mr. Sloan, Professor Burdock grumbled from the stage. He paused as he shuffled important papers around on his small desk, required to guide him through today's presentation on the psychology of language.

Sorry, said Matt, wiping away the sweat forming on his forehead. Doesn't look like you've started yet.

Burdock peered out from between his bushy eyebrows and beard, the same facial hair that had caused his nickname of Ernest to be derived. Just take a seat, Sloan.

Matt looked up at the wall of students in front of him: some yawning, some frowning, and others totally uninterested in the exchange taking place between student and teacher under the spotlighted stage before them. He spotted a couple of spare seats near the back where the lighting was also dimmer and it suited him fine. By the time he reached the top of the stairs and squeezed into the gap beside his best friend Damian Jacobs, he was sweating and out of breath.

You’re out of shape, said Damian smirking, while Burdock commenced the lecture below them.

And you should've knocked on my door to make sure I was up before you left this morning, replied Matt.

Damian’s eyes widened as he leant inwards to Matt and whispered: I did! You were too out of it after another night on the vodka and those pills you take.

"I wasn't that bad."

You were comatose, said Damian. You're going to give yourself a heart attack.

A girl two rows down turned and directed a sharp ssshh! at the two of them. They picked up their pens and listened to Burdock’s lecture; the slanging match could continue later.

An hour later Burdock’s lecture came to a conclusion. Matt had little in the way of notes compared to the other students around him, and he feared this was down to his tiredness as opposed to the dull and uninspiring nature of the subject matter. An elbow in his ribs forced him off the seat and onto the stairs.

So, said Damian. Will you be out tonight?

You gave me what-for earlier and now you want me to come out again?

Aye, of course, said Damian. It's a special occasion after all.

And what might that be?

Damian looked at Matt as they filed down the stairs towards the exit. "Are you serious?