He put eyes on me, curled up and pretended to go to sleep.
‘Stick, then.’
Mac stood outside the Wall: he was doing the door. This surprised me. He’d been manager when I had the place.
‘Hod’s got you at the coalface?’
He motioned me in. ‘Aye well, it’s a living and work’s tight.’
I shrugged, said, ‘You got that right.’ I hadn’t seen him since the filth had lifted us at Ian Kerr’s gaff. ‘You get any grief down the nick?’
Mac laughed it up: ‘Fucksake, my record . . . what you think? Nothing I couldn’t handle, though.’ He led the way indoors. As we went, I felt my Docs sink in the heavy carpet – Hod had gone for the expensive stuff. It didn’t seem to fit with the old Holy Wall I remembered. Our mate Col had run this pub for years: we’d added the ‘Holy’ prefix as a nod to him being deep in his religion. I hoped his beliefs served him where he was now.
‘Well, what do you think?’ said Mac.
I tried to hold back, but couldn’t: ‘It’s a fucking eyesore . . . like
Pimp My Pub
.’
Where my picture of dogs playing snooker had once hung, mirror tiles and a matte-black handrail-cum-shelf had went up. New uplighters in the floor gave off – that worst of things – mood lighting. The entire place was bathed in an unnatural glow. There was a time when the only glow in here came from the tip of a Woodbine. I felt ready to chuck.
‘Come on, man, it’s Manhattan-style. Move with the times.’
I couldn’t believe this was Mac talking. ‘Aye right . . . it’s tits. And you know it.’
Hod spied us, made his way over. He wore a tight white shirt, open at the collar, and there was a new bandido-style tache above his lip. The whole lot seemed to have been dyed, several shades darker than his natural colour. He looked like a man galloping towards a midlife crisis. Experimentation with facial hair – never a good idea for our age group.
‘Fuck me, it’s Quigley! What’s it like Down Under, mate?’ I said.
He dipped his head, patted his crotch. ‘I got no complaints!’
Mac shuffled off to the bar. Hod grabbed me by the shoulders, put a bear hug on me. ‘Come here, buddy.’ He slapped my back, let me go, then stared in my eyes. ‘Sorry about Michael.’
I had no words for him. We turned for the bar, watched Mac pour out a pint of Guinness. He took his time. I stared at the creamy head as it settled and felt every fibre of me twitch at the memory of that taste of dark.
‘Still on the dry bus?’ he said.
‘Big time,’ I snapped back to reality, ‘. . . gimme a Coke.’
Mac supped the head off his pint as Hod ducked under the bar and grabbed a bottle of Stella Artois. We moved towards the windows. They’d been widened, but the view outside still sucked. People bent double into the wind, clutching at Aldi carriers.
‘How’s trade?’ I said.
He laughed, pointed to a couple of young lads in the corner drinking cans of Lech. ‘If it wasn’t for the Poles we’d be shut already. Fucking hope they don’t nash back home anytime soon.’ I got the impression business wasn’t Hod’s favourite subject at the moment. I knew he’d shut up his building firm a few weeks back. He was probably living off savings. ‘Anyway, what’s the Hampden Roar with your brother’s joint? Mac told me about the Kerr bloke . . . Fucking rough.’
‘You’re not kidding. I was back round today.’
‘And?’
I slugged on the Coke. The ice made my teeth twinge as I told them what the gadgie with the burger van had said.
‘Labour scam,’ said Hod. ‘Saw it a few times in the building game.’
‘What’s that?’
He took a pull on the Stella, put down the bottle and started to chop the tabletop with his hands. ‘It’s like this: those fuckers round them up in some poor shithole abroad, take a wad off them for transport and papers, accommodation and the like. Most of them don’t have the knackers so they get into debt, before they even get over here.’
‘So, what, some boss man shifts them, puts them up . . . Then what?’
‘Gets them set up with the social . . . all totally above board so far. They get them signing on, then they get hold of their books.’
‘The Nat King Cole?’ said Mac.
‘Aye, aye. Take their dole books and their giros. The poor bastards can’t go anywhere because the gang boss – and that’s what they are, gangsters – has their passports and their papers, the lot.’
Mac piped in, ‘Probably putting a threat on them back home too: you do this for us or such-and-such happens to yer maw or yer kids.’
It added up. I just didn’t see where my brother’s business came into all of this. It wasn’t something Michael would entertain as a bad joke. ‘Hang about. If they’re signing on, how can they be working for Davie Prentice?’
Hod and Mac laughed together. Mac raised his bevvy to his mouth.
Hod said, ‘They’re crooks, Gus . . . heavyweight fucking crim-jobs. Think they’re giving an Aylesbury duck for the law? They’ve got this house, probably several houses, full of totally desperate migrants and, what, they just let them sit about all day waiting for their giros?’
Mac put down his pint. ‘Dream on.’
‘They had them on the sites,’ said Hod. ‘All cash in hand, mind. Some bloke in a fancy motor would turn up at the end of the week and take the wages for twenty or thirty workers. And nobody, but nobody, batted an eyelid. These guys are hard core, this is a big racket and there’s big money in it.’
I picked up a beer mat, folded it down the middle, sat it on the table. ‘It’s slavery,’ I said.
Hod agreed, ‘Aye, it is that.’
‘One thing I don’t get is, what I mean is, I can’t see Michael having been involved in anything like that. He wouldn’t have stood for it.’
Mac butted in: ‘I can see that fat Davie cunt going for it. Man’s a parasite – fucking reeks out of him.’
I agreed. ‘Yeah, I can see him being in, if the numbers added up . . . but not under Michael’s nose, and this set-up’s been on the go long enough for my brother to have rumbled it.’
Hod lowered his voice, leaned back and tucked a thumb in a belt loop. ‘Maybe he didn’t like it, Gus. But maybe he
did
know.’
I knew what he was trying to say, and why he didn’t say it. I spoke for him: ‘You think my brother got offed because he was making a fuss about some Czech labour scam?’
Hod shrugged. ‘Bears thinking about.’ He stood up, looked out the window, confirmed the snow was back on. ‘You want to go pay another visit to this fat Davie?’
I rose; Mac did too. I faced the pair of them, said, ‘Let’s leave him for now.’
Mac was ready to bust heads, ready to let swing with that hammer. ‘Oh, come on, man, he’s clearly up to his nuts in it!’
I took his point, but there was nothing to be gained from giving Davie another belt; yet, anyway. I started to fasten my Crombie. ‘You’ll get your chance with him soon enough. I can’t risk putting the
big
frightener on him too soon.’
Hod spoke, ‘He’s right: if the guy’s as piss-weak as you say he is, Mac, he’ll only bolt.’
I said cheers for the drink, that I’d be in touch, headed for the door.
Hod slurped the dregs of his Stella, turned for the bar. ‘Look, seriously, Gus, if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Well, there is one thing . . . Can you do some sniffing with your builder boyos, suss out who this Czech is?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘He’s got a houseful in Leith, drives a Pajero . . . if that’s any help.’
He raised his bottle, tipped it to me. ‘I’ll get on it.’
As Hod went behind the bar, Mac grabbed me, said, ‘Hold up a sec.’
I stopped at the doorjamb and he slipped something in my hand. As I looked down I saw he’d come good on some more speed.
‘Nice one,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch soon, real soon. Keep your hammer handy.’
Chapter 12
ON THE STREET MY THOUGHTS were gnashing in my head. There was more to the killing of my brother than I had first thought. I knew from the off it was no mugging gone wrong, but I couldn’t grasp the idea that there was so much serious shit attached. There was a war going on inside me: demons wanted me to burst fat Davie’s head for answers, and they were teamed up with the crew who wanted to get me back on the drink. At the moment the only force waged against them was the need to find justice for Michael, but that lot were being held back by my desire to do right by Debs. The way things were stacking, with Czech crims in the picture, it didn’t augur well for our reformed relationship.
I battled with the snow. It was coming down hard. A bloke with a Christmas tree in polythene wrapping T-boned me at the junction. I slipped into the road but got held up by a big biffer in a parka. I thanked him; he had the hood up, couldn’t speak, but nodded. I read the North Face badge on his chest, said, ‘Be warmer there, likely.’
I carried on back to the car, got the notion I was being followed and turned round to see North Face trailing me. He had the parka hood zipped up to the hilt. I saw two eyes, there’s a phrase,
like pissholes in the snow
. I upped my pace – wasn’t easy, the soles of my Docs had worn thin. I cursed Debs for refusing me a new pair. Still, the toecaps were hard enough; might be grateful for those soon, I thought.
The parka guy stayed on me as I reached the car. He’d upped his work rate but was obviously feeling it, took down the hood to expose a shaved head and bright red cheeks, puffed with the exertion.
As I got to the car, Usual sprang up at the window. He saw me and lobbed himself into the driver’s seat. I looked up the street and saw North Face get into a run. A few yards off he reached out a hand for me as I got the keys from my pocket. Usual sensed my anxiety, started to bark. I had the key in the lock, turned it as the biffer appeared, put a grip on my shoulder – sent the dog ballistic.
‘You got a fucking problem, mate?’ I said.
He held tight. ‘Trying to do you a favour.’ He was Leith, I knew the accent. Saw him at Easter Road on a Saturday; not for the footy, for the post-match pagger.
I pushed him away. ‘I’m very careful about who I take favours from. Never know what they might want in return.’
He turned his head towards the car, saw the dog snarl, teeth bared. I had a grip on the handle – if he moved he could go a few rounds with those jaws. He got wind of his predicament. I watched him look back up, caught sight of a spider’s web tattooed on his neck. It looked amateurish, probably prison-issue. He spoke: ‘Man up there wants a wee word.’
I glanced into the road. There was a line of cars. ‘And who might that be?’
He brought his hand up to his nose: a sovereign ring on every finger, more tats. ‘Come and see.’
I didn’t like where this conversation was going; I saw that collection of Elizabeth Duke’s finest coming the way of my mush soon. ‘How ’bout I don’t.’
The dog went Radio Rental, sprayed white froth at the window. The pug weighed his options; snow collected on his eyelashes. Any second now that one lonely brain cell was going to overheat. ‘The big man won’t be pleased if I tell him that.’
‘Your trouble, not mine.’
‘I could fucking drag you.’
I pressed out a grin, indicated the car. ‘You could
fucking
try.’
Bastard did. Went for a low headbutt. He was too tall to disguise the move and I ducked it in time, pulled open the car door as he nutted the air and landed on the ground. Usual went right for his throat. The pug screamed like a loose fan belt as the dog tore into his parka. I let Usual take a few chunks out of the fabric, some orange lining spilled out. People in the street turned around; I didn’t give them enough time to grab any details for a witness statement.
‘Usual, drop it.’ He stopped, stared up at me. ‘Come away.’
The pug’s feet slipped out before him as he pushed up the street on the bones of his arse. The dog watched him cautiously, growling. When North Face got far enough away to feel safe he leaped up, pointed to me and said, ‘You’re done, pal.’ He drew a finger down his cheek. I’d seen this before: it meant I was to be marked with a razor. No one had ever come good on any ripping threat made to me. I put the dog on him again; Usual went for his heels as he ran. He attached jaws as the pug reached a dark Daimler.
I whistled and the dog let go, ran back down the street and jumped in the car. He sat on the passenger seat, panting. I swore he was smiling.
I got in the car and spun the wheels. Chucked a U-turn, palm in the windscreen like the taxi drivers do. I got blasted by the oncoming traffic, but I made my manoeuvre with only one front wheel clipping the kerb.
As I drew alongside the Daimler I checked out the pug. He had his Timberland boots up and was rubbing his ankle, grimacing. Beside him, sat between us, was a face I recognised instantly. Long and dour, pasty white. It was Ronnie McMilne. The man they called the Undertaker. I didn’t know him, I only knew of him. I knew about lots of people I wished I didn’t.
McMilne caught me staring at him. His face looked hollowed out, the cheekbones poking beneath the skin like meat hooks. I wondered if my own face registered what I was thinking:
Holy fucking shit
.
An electric window went down. I heard the pug cursing; rolled down my own window. The Undertaker put a bony hand on the edge of the car. I could make out the veins and liver spots from where I sat. He said, ‘You’re Gus Dury.’ His voice unsettled me, a low rasp that sounded like sandpaper on glass.
I spat a quick reply: ‘Yeah, that’s me.’
‘We need tae have a wee chat, Gus Dury.’ I knew what one of his wee chats might amount to. I felt my chest tighten, like a belt was being pulled around it.
‘Why would that be?’
The pug sussed me, couldn’t believe what he was hearing and started to roar, ‘I’ll fucking do him here!’
He got out the door before McMilne calmed him, ‘Sit doon, Sammy.’ It only took three words: the big mug stood in the street, glowering over the car’s roof towards me like he’d been tied to a post.