Davie looked down at the table top and his body slumped as if accepting something he had until now refused to believe. He said nothing more, apart from a ‘thank you’ when Luca collected his food, laid it down in front of him and wished him
buon appetito
. Luca left him to his meal and took up a position behind the counter. He kept himself busy, washing down the serving area, rearranging the confectionary on display, but all the while he kept a watch on the kid. Luca thought he had convinced him, but he was still troubled. He needed to see Davie’s eyes to be sure he was in the clear, but he couldn’t get a clear view of them.
It did not help when Joe appeared at his side and whispered,
He knows.
* * *
He’d only been out a day and everything appeared familiar and yet different. Ten years was a long time and things had changed. Shops had new owners. Buildings were gone. Fashion had changed. He was older.
As Davie walked back to Sword Street, he thought about Luca’s words. Joe had been ageing, Davie had noticed it. It was nothing overt. A slowing down, that’s all. Maybe he did just make that one mistake and gave Jazz the chance to pull the trigger. It would only take a second. But Joe still had the strength with a bullet in him to stick a knife in Jazz. To Davie, that wasn’t what a tired, weak old man would be able to do. And there was only one bullet, he’d heard. If Joe was coming for Jazz with a knife, Jazz could’ve put another one in him, maybe two, stopped him dead.
On the other hand, maybe Jazz was so shit-scared that he couldn’t fire again. Maybe the boy panicked and Joe got to him first. Davie knew the old man was handy with that knife, he’d learned to use it with the Polish partisans in the war. Joe had told him his war stories and Davie knew he was capable of wielding it expertly and swiftly.
And then Joe lay down and died.
He didn’t try to call anyone, he didn’t try to get help.
He just died.
Davie didn’t believe it.
Someone else was there, he knew it.
* * *
She was waiting for him when he reached the closemouth. He’d seen a figure in the car but didn’t know it was her until she climbed out. He stared into her green eyes and was instantly transported back to the night in the city’s West End when he’d seen her for the first time. He felt the same powerhouse blow to his chest he’d felt then. Some things never change.
‘Hello, Davie,’ she said, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
‘Hello, Audrey,’ he said.
‘I heard you were out,’ she said. He nodded. Of course she would. ‘You’re looking good,’ she said, and he had the impression it was more to say something than anything else.
‘So do you,’ he said and he wasn’t just being polite. Her honey blonde hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a pony tail. She had lines that weren’t there the last time he saw her, but then, so did he. Ten years is a long time. She hadn’t put on weight, she was still slim yet curvy at the same time. She was wearing a smart dark blue trouser suit and crisp white blouse. She looked gorgeous.
And then he saw the ring on her finger.
‘You’re married,’ he said and she glanced down at her left hand as if she’d forgotten. She reddened slightly.
‘Five years,’ she said.
Of course she was married
, he thought.
Why wouldn’t she be? So that was why her by-line vanished – her name changed.
They stood for a few moments, looking at each other, their awkwardness standing between them like a third person. Her right hand had moved to cover her left, he saw, hiding her ring. He wondered if she knew she’d done that.
‘I need to talk to you, Davie,’ she said.
He nodded as if a former girlfriend appearing out of the blue after eight years was the most natural thing in the world for him. ‘You want to come in?’
She looked up at the red sandstone walls as if the answer was written there. ‘Sure,’ she said finally. ‘Why not?’
The flat seemed even quieter than usual as they sat facing each other in the sitting room. He’d asked her if she wanted tea or coffee but she declined. He didn’t offer anything else because he wasn’t sure what he had. After that they sat in silence, the only sound the whirring of the electric clock on the mantelpiece above the gas fire. Davie hated that clock and vowed to get rid of it. If he wanted to hear the passing of time, he wanted a good old-fashioned tick and not an electronic throb. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he left it to Audrey. She was the wordsmith, after all. He was just a ned.
‘Davie,’ she said, finally, ‘I’m sorry about the way things ended. Back then. In the jail.’
He shook his head. ‘Not your fault, Aud.’
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘I… well, I ran out on you. I deserted you.’
‘Aud,’ he said, his voice firm, ‘water under the bridge. You did the right thing.’
She gave him a slight smile. He couldn’t tell whether she was agreeing with him or if there was something else. ‘When you… when you had your sentence extended after…’
‘After I beat that guy senseless. You can say it, Aud, I was there, I remember.’
Her eyes dropped. ‘Yes… well… I couldn’t handle it.’
‘I know.’
‘I let you down.’
Davie repeated, ‘You did the right thing. I wasn’t the right one for you.’
She nodded, her right hand absently moving again over her left. ‘He’s a police officer,’ she said, even though Davie hadn’t asked. She looked up and saw his raised eyebrow. ‘A
DC
, Stewart Street.’
Davie said nothing. She shrugged, as if she was apologising. He wanted to tell her not to apologise. She never had to apologise to him. She got on with her life and that life was not for him. But he didn’t speak, choosing, as usual, to remain silent.
‘You’re a legend, you know that?’ There was that slight smile again. He had missed that little smile, the one she gave him when she was about to make fun of him. He missed the way her eyes sparkled. He missed her. But she was not for him, he had to keep reminding himself of that. ‘The way you chased Boyle down Duke Street after he’d shot that policeman…’
‘Frank Donovan.’
‘Yes. Frank Donovan. He’s a Detective Sergeant now, back at Baird Street. The fight in the street between you and Boyle, it’s grown arms and legs over the years,’ she continued. ‘Last time I heard it mentioned, it lasted half an hour and you were both beaten to a bloody pulp.’
Davie’s mind flashed back to that night and he was facing Clem Boyle again – felt the ache in his ribs, in his muscles and where his flesh had been scraped from the bone as they scrambled on the pavement trying to reach a gun. ‘Didn’t last that long. But we were pretty beat up.’
‘Still, it’s made you a legend. I was reminded of that yesterday when I met an old friend of yours. Donald Harris.’
Davie frowned. ‘Harris?’
‘He told me what happened, what really happened. You were telling me the truth back then. I’m sorry, Davie…’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he went after you, that you got the better of him. That someone paid him to do it.’
Davie was tense, leaning forward in his chair. ‘He say who?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s a junkie now, he’d just shot up and passed out. I wouldn’t get much sense out of him even if I woke him. I’m sorry, Davie, I should’ve believed you.’
Davie dismissed the thought with a flick of his hand, his mind on Harris. He might know who had paid Lomas off. It was a long shot, but he might know something.
He stared deeply into Audrey’s eyes, almost losing himself again, but pulling himself back. That was over, he told himself. ‘Do you trust me, Aud?’
She thought about his question for a moment then nodded. ‘I should’ve trusted you eight years ago. I trust you now. Why?’
‘Because I want you to take me to Harris right now…’
16
THERE WAS NO
answer at the door of Jinky’s top-floor flat. Davie had knelt down to listen at the letterbox but heard no movement inside, no telly blaring, no radio. That didn’t mean anything, of course, because if Audrey was right and it was a shooting gallery, the addicts could all be asleep, like vampires in the daytime. Short of kicking the door in, which Davie might have been tempted to do had she not been there, there was nothing for it but to head out to see if they could find him.
Audrey drove them to the shopping arcade in Cumberland Street. It wasn’t a huge mall like the one they had built at St Enoch Square in the city centre. The shops here drew local trade in the main, and the occasional visitor in need of a newspaper, sandwich or a hot pie. But that was not what would attract addicts like Harris. They needed to eat, but they had more pressing reasons to come here. Audrey parked the car opposite the opening to the shopping centre and nodded towards a railing cutting the wide pavement off from the road.
‘That’s the Beggar’s Rail,’ she said. ‘Watch.’
Davie watched intently. A few people wandered in and out of the shops, women with shopping bags, young mums with children, men heading for the bookies or the pub. But there were others, hanging around with seemingly nothing to do. They appeared restless, nervous even, young women, young men, a few older people, some of them obviously addicts, their thin faces and pale skin as much a giveaway as the continual scratching at their arms or groins.
‘When they can no longer find veins in their arms, they start to inject in other parts of their body – their groin, usually,’ said Audrey. ‘Strip them down and you’ll find track marks all over. There’ll be ulcers on the arms and legs, scabs, sores, you name it.’
Many of them limped as they paced to and fro, puffing on cigarettes like the nicotine was mother’s milk. They paid little attention to their surroundings or the fearful looks from some of the shoppers as they skirted around them. Their complete attention was on the roadway.
‘Here we go,’ said Audrey, and Davie saw a blue
VW
Estate park up near the rail. A white-haired man in his fifties and a hard-faced woman who might have been a decade younger climbed out. The addicts didn’t move, but they stared at the newcomers expectantly. The white-haired man stood at the rail and nodded to a young man to come forward. A word or two was exchanged and the man held his hand out to the woman, who had stationed herself at the rear of the
VW
. She opened the door and reached inside, then passed something to the man, who in turn handed it to the younger man. Bank notes were exchanged and the junkie limped off, his purchase clutched in his palm.
‘They sell everything,’ explained Audrey. ‘Smack, jellies, eggs…you name it.’
Davie knew that jellies and eggs were different forms of Temazepam, one a plastic bubble, the other a rock that needed to be melted. He’d been away for ten years, but drugs were far from unknown in Barlinnie. A woman with a baby in a pram was next. The mother was plump and healthy, but Davie guessed she wouldn’t stay that way. The drugs would soon eat that fat away. God knew what kind of life lay ahead for the child. She thrust the small package into the pram and hurried away. Davie shook his head at the parade of human misery.
‘Not pretty, is it?’ said Audrey. ‘But that’s the business you’re in, Davie.’
‘I’m not in the business,’ he said.
‘Not yet maybe. But your pal Rab is, and your other pal, Bobby, is it? This is what they do. They provide the drugs that these people sell.’
Davie didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say. Joe had been against this, but the profits it generated were too powerful a draw for some and even he couldn’t fight it. He died opposing it.
‘Watch this,’ said Audrey, and Davie saw a middle-aged woman coming round the railing towards the rear of the
VW
. She raised the sleeve of her sweatshirt and let the woman inject something into her arm.
‘Some people don’t like jagging themselves,’ Audrey explained, ‘so the dealer’ll do it for them. All part of the service. Some of these people will be
HIV
-Positive, thanks to sharing dirty needles. Some of them will be dead this time next week, or next month or even tomorrow, if they don’t get help. Some will get help, get clean, and never look back. But they’ll always be addicts, always be on guard against slipping back into their old ways. But most will keep going until the drugs or the virus or some other infection kills them. But there’re always more poor souls ready to take their place. And plenty of drugs to go round, thanks to Rab McClymont and the rest.’
Davie was sickened by the scene. He wished he could tell Audrey to take him away from there, but they still hadn’t found Harris. ‘You think this is where Harris buys?’
‘It’s the most likely place, close to his flat. He could be out thieving to pay for his habit, but sooner or later I think he’ll come here. He spoke about it during the interview.’
Davie nodded and sat back in the seat, unable to take his eyes off the free enterprise before his eyes. Joe had been right about the drug trade: it fed on weakness, it thrived on unhappiness, it prospered on despair. And when it had drained every last penny from its customers, it let them wither and die and went in search of fresh blood. Joe was a crook, a thief, even a pimp, but he despised the notion of drugs taking hold in his adopted city. Yet, here it was ten years after his death, and deals were being made in broad daylight. Davie didn’t understand addiction, whether it was drink or drugs. He had spent his life controlling his emotions, reining himself in, for fear of what he might unleash should he ever let himself go. Drink and drugs, even tobacco, were taboo for him, a self-imposed restriction certainly, but one to which he adhered rigidly.