I got out of the cab, called out, ‘Hope you’re feeling like a wee drive, Davie . . .’ Mac poked him between the shoulder blades, pointed to my side of the vehicle. As he reached me Davie hesitated, looked like bolting for the fir trees. I grabbed him by the collar. ‘Get in there, and be quick about it you little shitkicker.’
Mac got in his side of the truck. I dived in after Davie, sandwiching him between the pair of us. The speed was coursing through me. ‘Now, isn’t this cosy,’ I said. I watched Davie’s face contort; he looked first to Mac then to me before he got thrown back in his seat as the wheels spun on the scree.
‘Jesus, what are you playing at?’ he yelped.
I flicked a backhander over his flabby cheek, said, ‘Haven’t decided yet.’
As we drove, we fell into each other on the bends. We stayed silent but the air in the cab soon became foetid.
‘Fucksake, Davie, have you let loose?’ said Mac.
‘Be that Cantonese,’ I said. ‘Must play havoc with the digestion at your age.’
I opened the window. Davie spoke: ‘How do you know I had a Cantonese?’
I felt hyped – the drugs firing in me – I grabbed his face in my hand, squeezed hard. ‘There are many things we know about you, Davie. Many,
many
things . . . Isn’t that right, Mac?’
He crunched the gears. ‘Too fucking right.’
Fat Davie’s meaty neck started to quiver. His eyes widened on the road ahead. He looked as if he was travelling on the roof of a train, grabbing on to the seat with his fingernails. His mouth was a plughole, set too far back in his head, and his face was the wrong colour for a normally ruddy-complexioned tubster.
We drove back the way we’d come, headed for the Craigs. Mac had to drop the gas as the roads got icier. It looked dark for the time of day, the frost on the hills and the lying snow adding a surreal tint to the topography. As we climbed to the top of the hill it got even darker, the winding road gave out. I watched Mac kill the engine, then the lights. We sat in almost perfect stillness; save for the dim flicker of street lamps from the city below, nothing moved.
Then, ‘This is where Billy Boy copped his whack, is it no’?’ said Mac. He was referring to an old case of mine. Tragic shooting.
I took up the baton: ‘Shot in the face.’ I rattled Davie: ‘Not a nice place to end your days . . . Dying out in the cold.’ I pressed the point: ‘. . . Last sight, a shooter going off.’
Davie played with his shirt-cuffs. I watched his row of chins tremble with the movement. I spotted a little bit of tissue paper sticking to the edge of his collar, held on with a spot of blood. A razor nick; he had fucking more to worry about now.
He spoke: ‘Look, I don’t know what you want with me . . . I don’t.’ His voice sounded strangled, the words lost in the tightness of his throat.
I grabbed his tie, pulled him closer to me. ‘You’re holding out on me, Davie – that was your second mistake. Your first was thinking I’d let you get away with it.’
Mac started to drum his fingers on the steering wheel: Davie took his gaze off me – I grabbed his jaw, jerked back his head. ‘I know you were running knock-offs for Ronnie McMilne,’ I said.
He held it together. ‘Your brother knew all about it . . . Michael was totally aware of—’
I slapped him on the brow with the heel of my hand. I didn’t need telling by this sack of shit. ‘Don’t even fucking presume to know more than me. I know about you, Davie, I know about the Czechs as well. The Undertaker must’ve took some hump when you cut him out of that racket!’ I yanked hard on the tie, smacked his brow into the dashboard.
Davie stayed down, dropped his head in his hands, lost it. He whined like a trapped animal. Mac edged round in his seat – the noise made Davie jump again.
‘Get this cunt oot before he shits himself.’ Mac pushed Davie towards me. I grabbed his tie again, jerked it tight as I backed out the door.
‘Better talk to me, Davie, I’m your best option. Did Michael kick off about the Czechs, was that it? Did he protest about your plans?’
The fat fucker fell on his knees, quite a clatter. I watched his face lose more colour as he started to stammer, ‘N-no. No . . . there was nothing like that. Nothing like that.’ He was sweating now, it came off his broad head in cobs. His face turned grey, the moisture adding a waxy sheen to him.
Mac slammed his door, walked round to join us. He stood over fat Davie for a moment then grabbed his hair. I gave him a slap with the back of my hand. Mac pulled him from the ground, forced him to face me.
Davie knew he was in Shit Street, his golf-club bonhomie was no good to him here; he reverted to the squealing little wimp he must have been in school. Mac and I were the playground bullies, taking his dinner money. He yelped a defence: ‘Ronnie was mad . . . furious. Michael went to see him, to try and talk some sense to the man.’
I barked at him, ‘When?’
‘The night he died.’
‘Are you saying McMilne killed my brother?’
‘I-I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’
My synapses jumped. ‘It sounds like it to me, Davie.’
‘I’m only telling you what I know . . . You asked me what I know and I’m telling you.’
None of it made sense. Davie was trying to save himself. ‘If McMilne killed Michael, then why’s he left you alive?’
Davie’s breath shortened. His face grew so pale I thought he might have a coronary. ‘I don’t know, I don’t have all the answers.’
I smelled bullshit. ‘Is it because you have protection, Davie . . . is that it? Who’s protecting you, the Czechs? Or is it the filth?’
He shook his head, panted, gasped for air. ‘No one’s protecting me.’
I was ready to see this fat fucker keel over. I grabbed his tie again and hauled his face to mine. I bawled at him, ‘Someone’s fucking looking out for you, only I wouldn’t count on them saving your arse. There’s a rat in your outfit cosying up to plod and given you’ve only got Czechs on the payroll it doesn’t look like you’ve many true friends.’
Mac stepped in, separated me from Davie. I was out of control, had said too much and I knew it. He hosed me down, put a hand on my chest and said, ‘Watch it.’
I took the hint, walked to the edge of the road and sparked up a tab.
Davie spoke: ‘Gus, Gus . . . I was Michael’s friend, can’t you see that? We were partners. I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him . . . I wouldn’t.’
I drew deep on the cigarette. It stilled my heart rate, but not my rage. I said, ‘Tell me who killed Michael and I’ll make it all go away. You’ll get me off your back and you’ll get whoever killed him off your back at the same time, because I’ll do them, and you know it.’
I walked to the truck, opened the door. A fierce wind blew up from the sea, hit like a blast. I watched Davie turn in the road. He fell on his knees again. ‘I don’t know who killed Michael, I don’t . . .’ He was close to collapse. ‘I don’t. If I did, I’d tell you. I would . . . I would.’
‘You’re fucking lying to me.’ I was sure of it: he was protecting someone. That he’d told me McMilne saw my brother the night he died made me think the Undertaker had Davie’s nuts in a grinder – but it would be me turning the handle soon.
Mac walked around him, scowled, and returned to the truck.
I got in and closed the door. As Mac started the engine I lowered the window, said, ‘Think about what I said, Davie. Because only when I know who killed my brother will I leave you in peace.’
Chapter 19
THERE WAS LESS THAN A week till Christmas. I got my first card of the year – from my mother. I put it on the string above the mantel with the fifty or so that Debs had received. Time was when we got cards addressed to the both of us; not any more. It would take a while before it registered that we were a couple again. I wondered if we would last that long.
Debs wasn’t herself. There’d been tears, shouting. She knew I wasn’t about to let up on the case; she understood I couldn’t. It came as a heartscald to her, because it was a red-flag warning that the Gus of old was still with us. Much as I wanted to change, much as I’d made promises and real progress, my old self was still there. Like Yul Brynner’s faulty android in
Westworld
, you couldn’t kill him with an axe. Just kept coming back at you. Again and again.
I’d pledged to keep up the sessions with the shrink, but I doubted their worth. I wasn’t sure all this psychobabble wasn’t just dredging up more hurt, exposing me to memories and emotions I’d buried for years. My past had been something I’d kept locked away, sealed in a jar. When it did present itself it took another kind of jar to wash it away. I wasn’t sure all this introspection wouldn’t have me reaching for the sauce soon. I felt the pull of it growing stronger by the day.
The dog came over to me on the couch, jumped in my lap. I patted his head, said, ‘Least I still have you, boy.’ The words seemed to pump me up. I didn’t want to lose Debs again, after all we’d been through. I didn’t want to go back to that lonely place, the late-night lock-ins, the obliteration of drink, the longing for a new life. I had another chance, but did I deserve it? Christ, it was more than Michael had. The thought wounded me. The old Presbyterian guilt rose. Was God toying with me? Giving me a glimpse of happiness to make the return of misery more painful than ever?
I felt sure of only one thing: I couldn’t go on like this. Something had to give. And soon.
My thoughts spiralled away from me, then my mobi began to ring; brought me back to earth.
Picked up. ‘Hello.’
‘That you, Gus?’ I half recognised the voice. ‘It’s Mr Bacon.’ My former boss on the newspaper, Mr Bacon – or Rasher, as I called him. He went on, ‘I was sorry to hear about your loss, Gus . . . so very sorry.’
I didn’t want to hear this; I knew at once why he had rung.
‘You got the scoop, then . . .’
He gave a little cough. ‘Erm, that’s not why I called at all. I just wanted to say . . .’
I wasn’t buying his bullshit. Hacks have little compassion when there are headlines involved. He was using his best ‘in’ to get a comment. I said, ‘You wanted to fake concern to see if there was a better line on offer, that it?’
‘Gus, I-I never . . .’
I sounded harsh. Like I gave a shite.
‘Fuck off, Rasher.’
Hung up.
My mobi smelled of Marlboros. As I held it in my hand I knew I needed to get moving. If the press were onto the murder story, time was a bigger factor than ever.
Dialled Jayne.
The answerphone came on, inane preamble followed. I was about to leave a message when she picked up: ‘Hello.’
‘Jayne, hi . . . It’s Gus.’
She spoke fast, sounded manic: ‘I was just doing some cleaning up – I don’t know where all the dust comes from.’
I skipped the chit-chat. ‘So you’re not tied up, grand. I was wondering if I could pay you a wee visit.’
She faltered. ‘Erm, yes, I suppose . . . Was it anything in particular?’
I felt my eyes roll in my head. Of course it was something in particular! Wanted to say,
Well what do you fucking think?
Went with, ‘It’s about . . . Michael.’
She was fiddling with the answerphone, I guessed running a duster over it. The woman was coping the best way she could. I felt guilty for being short with her, even if it was only in my imagination.
‘Yes, that should be fine.’
‘Okay, I’ll be round in an hour.’
Clicked off.
Got booted and suited. The dog trailed me down the stairs and onto the street. At the top of Easter Road I saw something I hadn’t seen in years: a man carrying a sandwich board. It read,
FREE CHIPS WITH EVERY PIE
. As he passed I looked to see what was written on the back,
CHIPS AND A CAN
–
ONLY
£1. Had we really slumped this low? We had returned to Victorian advertising practices. I shook my head. Don’t know why I was getting so het up – we had been recycling Victorian work practices for years now. I wondered how far we were from seeing a man in a sandwich board that read,
WILL WORK FOR FOOD
.
I’d parked the car next to a communal dumpster that had been filled with a burst couch. Some massive floral eyesore, beige, but worn black at the arms, and spilling industrial foam onto the street below. It had been introduced vertically – a real challenge. I almost admired the arrogance of the fly-tippers.
As I put the key in the car door a bloke in a council van pulled up, started taking photographs of the couch. I couldn’t believe this, thought: Of course, they’ll be collecting forensic evidence to catch them. Laughed, shook my head for the second time in five minutes.
An old gadgie appeared at my back, said, ‘He’s wasting his time.’
Did I want to engage this bloke? Tried a ‘go away’ smile.
He went on, ‘They’ll have that oot there in no time.’
I knew he wasn’t talking about the scaffies – the council would have a cherry picker in the street before risking someone putting their back out, health and safety regs and all that.
‘Who will?’
‘Some mug after a sofa. Can’t leave anything on the street now. Shit-stained mattress isnae safe these days!’
True to form, a blue Bedford pulled up, couple of blokes got out and eyed the couch.
The gadgie watched. He had no upper teeth, just two in the row below. ‘Told you . . .’
I saw him on his way with a salute. ‘You weren’t wrong.’
I opened the car door and Usual jumped in.
The journey out to the Grange was treacherous; black ice had put a few cars off the road. A bus had bumped a left-hand drive-Beemer, pushed it onto the kerb at York Place. All the buses had been taken off Princes Street to get the new tramlines down and there was a tailback that stretched the length of George Street. We had to be the most congested city in the world. Nowhere else had a look-in, surely. It seemed utterly pointless owning a car; but then, that’s what The Man wanted. So fuck him; I revved it up.