‘And what did he tell you?’
‘The Czechs had pushed out McMilne and he wasn’t happy.’
Fitz reached for another smoke. I took one too this time.
‘This is getting feckin’ tribal,’ he said.
I lit my cigarette. It tasted too mild after the Marlboros. ‘It’s only going to get worse. The Czechs are . . .’ I was going to tell him about the visit to Michael’s home the night he died, about the bloke with the black Pajero, but Fitz shot me down.
‘Don’t tell me how to do my feckin’ job, Dury.’
I saw he had a boner for the Undertaker. Fitz was glory-hunting, he was imagining the headlines, knew he had a press favourite on his hands. It made me mad as hell. Another man had died – how many more would there be? ‘If you did your fucking job I wouldn’t need to tell you. And I wouldn’t have a dead brother.’
That wounded him. Fitz rose from his chair, swept up the pictures and closed the folder. He walked to the door. Before he went through it, he turned. ‘Leave this to the professionals, Dury, or sure as there’s a hole in your arse you’ll be joining your brother soon.’
Chapter 23
I WALKED HOME, STRUGGLING TO keep a straight line. Nothing new for me there, however this time I was sober. My legs felt so limp, my knees weak. Every few steps a shiver came up from the street and rampaged through my gut en route to my heart. Another man had lost his life. A good man. Andy had a family, he’d worked hard all his days to keep them; now they’d be spending Christmas without him.
I couldn’t keep Andy’s face from my mind: not his troubled, forlorn, world-weary face, but the bloodied, brutalised mash I’d seen in the photographs. My life had taken another turn; the slow, ponderous descent into ruin had been hastened. I had another soul on my conscience.
The cold north winds scattered litter and leaves before me. Bodies bent into the onslaught and fought to stay upright. The entire city seemed to have been drained of blood, everywhere looked greyer, darker than usual. I couldn’t focus on what had changed. Perhaps it was everything; perhaps it was me. My existence seemed futile. I held tight to the quarter-bottle of Grouse in my coat pocket. It felt cold; my fingers clasped tight but there was no warmth to be had. I knew that bottle held fire, I knew it also contained answers, of sorts. Those who say, ‘You won’t find any answers at the bottom of a bottle’ are dead wrong. The one and only answer was in there: oblivion.
I craved an escape from my life. I wanted to unscrew the cap on the bottle of Grouse and swill deep. I wanted to taste the heat of it, the burn of memory being obliterated, thoughts turning to smoke and ashes. I was lost. I knew I had no clue as to who had killed Andy, or Ian Kerr, or Michael. I had my gut telling me it was the Czechs one minute, then the Undertaker the next. I had Davie Prentice calling for a bullet out of sheer frustration, but I knew that was just my anger, my stupid lust for revenge.
The truth was, I had failed Michael; and now Andy had paid the price with his life.
Snow fell again. It came down quickly, deep and thick. It settled on the street and the walls and the railings. The rooftops turned white and the cars slowed as the roads filled with slush. No one seemed to be bothered by the downpour: they dashed in and out of shops with carriers and Christmas trees and rolls of wrapping paper as if nothing mattered save the coming celebrations. What happened to the crisis in capitalism? I thought. What happened to economic misery? To the great woes we had all embraced, the new-found common enemy? I wanted no part in readying myself for the festivities. I knew that in the next few days, three families would be gathering with empty chairs round the table. It didn’t seem right. Nothing
was
right any more.
I schlepped through the town, along the main drag and onto Waterloo Place. On Regent Road I looked up at St Andrew’s House, had a thought of praying to our nation’s patron saint but let it pass. A weather-beaten saltire flew above the building. It was so faded I could hardly make out the cross on it. I tried to look at it, tried to raise my head from the gutter, but the snow kept filling my eyes.
I was wet and cold and tired. As I made my way back to the flat I stopped to watch a window cleaner, working a cake shop’s front pane. Chocolate tarts, topped with strawberries and cream, sat on the shelf inside. I wanted to ask him: ‘How can you do that without your mouth watering?’ But I didn’t have it in me. Michael was the man to stop and share a craic with anyone – I didn’t feel capable of bringing a nice moment to another’s life.
When I got to the flat and looked at the keys I realised I’d walked home in a daze: I’d left the car parked on the south side. I thought to call Debs and ask her to retrieve it on her way home from work, but I’d have to give her an explanation and that would cause more grief.
Usual went wild. He’d been cooped up all day – a walk would do him good. I shook the snow off my coat, said, ‘Okay, boy, soon, just let me get warmed up a bit.’ My solution was to take some speed from the cistern, got my heart racing right away. I worked through the wraps, dreaded to think the kind of shit storm this would raise if Debs found out.
I was losing her again, I knew it. I had lost her once before: we had been married and she’d divorced me. Why she gave me another chance I’d no idea. I wanted to make it different this time, I had tried and tried but things were slipping away. I knew Debs deserved more and I wanted that for her; maybe it would be for the best if she dumped me for good. I saw an image of me alone, drinking and wallowing in my misery. It was a picture of defeat. ‘Is that what you want for yourself, Gus?’ I mouthed. Knew I might not have a say in the matter.
I clapped at the dog. He seemed filled with joy, running to his basket to retrieve his favourite plastic hotdog toy. He bit it and made it squeak, ran with it to me and thwacked it off my leg. I took the challenge, held tight to it and watched as he tried to tug it away again.
‘If only everyone was so easily pleased, boy,’ I said.
I was stunned by the dog’s stamina, got the impression he’d be able to keep this up all day. Me, I needed wraps of speed to keep me in the game. I was coming round to the idea that things were as bad as they could get. I had been going in reverse for so long, perhaps it was time I changed gear.
I took out my mobi, called Hod. ‘You all right?’
‘Gus, fuck tae fuck . . . Are you down the nick?’
I snorted, felt my nose running. ‘No, I’m out. Look, where are you now?’
‘At the pub. Want to tell me what happened?’
I wiped my nose. ‘Yeah, soon. I’m going to collect the motor. I’ll get you at the Wall.’
Hod flared up, ‘Ah, not a good idea. Remember that McMilne cunt’s been round here looking for you.’
‘So what?’
I heard him prepare a warning, tip the granite in his voice. ‘Are you forgetting he put me in the Royal?’
I knew what Hod was aiming at, but the point was wasted on me. I needed to see him and Mac. I had an idea forming that might just lead to some progress. ‘Look, Hod, if Ronnie McMilne wants to come dig me out he can . . .’
‘It’s a fucking grave he’ll be digging if he gets hold of you.’
I hosed him down: ‘Hod, that’s just shite. The Undertaker’s putting a threat on me because he wants something.’
‘
Wha’
? . . . What’s that then?’
‘
That
I don’t know, but I’m figuring it’s not something I can’t do if I’m in the dirt.’
Hod sighed. I could hear a punter ask if he was serving. ‘I think you’re taking an unnecessary risk.’
‘No, Hod, every risk I take now is entirely necessary . . . I’ll catch you in a half-hour. Try and grab hold of Mac, I’ll need you both for what I have in mind.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Look, you’ll see . . . Tell Mac to bring his hammer, though.’
‘I like the sound of that.’ I imagined him smiling into the phone.
Hung up.
Snow covered the car. Even the tyres. As I tugged open the frosted door Usual raced in before me. I took a sketch at the caff, saw the old waitress shuffling about inside. It crossed my mind to go in, apologise, but I thought it might just put a fright on her. I’d caused enough grief for one day.
The engine started first time, surprised me. The wipers struggled a bit on the windscreen, got snagged on all the snow. I went back out and wiped away a swathe, then I clocked the ticket. ‘The fuckers,’ I muttered. Leave a car parked in this city without a watch on it, you’re getting ticketed. I thought to scrunch it, throw it into the street, but knew I’d get caught on camera, and done for littering. Pocketed the bastard and cursed.
It took the now mandatory time to get through the town
.
It shitted me, but I had grown used to it. When I got to the Wall, I parked up. Left an inch of window open for the dog; didn’t think anyone would have the knackers to try breaking in with Usual on shoatie.
In the pub, Mac stood behind the bar. He wore a black T-shirt with a picture of David Hasselhoff that read, ‘Don’t Hassel the Hoff’. I nodded, gave him an ‘All right, squire.’
‘Gus, boy. What you having?’
‘Give us a Coke.’
He frowned, watched the pint he was pouring fill to the brim. ‘We’re out of Coke.’
A pub out of Coke? Things didn’t look good here. ‘Well, give me whatever . . . juice, water.’
Got a nod and a wink as Hod came in; he seemed to have relaxed a bit. Planted a slap on my back. ‘You right?’
‘Yeah, yeah . . . What about you? You look on the mend.’
He tapped his pocket. ‘Dr Mac there got me a few Harry Hills.’
Whatever it was, it was working. Hod clapped his hands together, pointed to the seats at the back of the bar. As we walked over Mac called through the kitchen hatch for somebody to mind the till. My eyes dropped to the uplighters in the floor. They seemed solid purple now. ‘You got the mood lighting a bit severe today, Hod, have you not?’
‘That’s him,’ he said, pointing to Mac, ‘fucker’s colour-blind!’
Mac reached a hand to Hod’s mozzer, tweaked it. ‘I’m not working in a pink palace just because the boss’s a buftie, aw right.’
We laughed it up – Hod less so.
Mac spoke as we took our seats: ‘So, you were lifted?’
‘Aye, no charges or owt . . . Just had my collar felt.’
‘So what was plod after?’
I filled them in on the murder of Andy. I left out the most gruesome details: didn’t want to put the shits up them because I needed their help. Not that it would put this pair off – more likely it would incite them to damage of an altogether more serious nature.
‘He was a nice bloke,’ said Mac.
I agreed. ‘He was.’
Hod smoothed down the edges of his moustache. ‘So, who do you think did him over?’
I went into my back pocket, pulled out the torn piece of Regal pack that Hod had given me earlier. Mac snatched it, read, ‘Radek . . . Who the fuck’s that?’
Hod answered him: ‘He’s our Czech gangsta. Nasty piece ay work as well.’
Mac pried and Hod gave him a rundown on some of the stories that had followed Radek around, got him turfed off the sites. He managed to make him sound like Charles Bronson – not the actor, the one in Broadmoor.
‘We should do him,’ said Mac. He was serious as well. Completely unfazed by Hod’s description.
‘Oh, y’think . . .’ said Hod. He was just as straight as Mac. The pair seemed ready to go, here and now. Was madder than
Death Race
.
I slapped Mac’s shoulder. ‘Will you cool yer jets? We’re not doing anyone. You forget he’s just out the hospital.’
Hod leaned back in his chair, spread his arms. ‘Hey, I’m good to go. Those wee Mick Mills have done the trick.’
I told him to shut up. I needed a pair behind me that were useful in a pagger – but I wasn’t going looking for a fight.
Mac tried a new approach: ‘That was Ronnie’s lumps that did Hod over; we’re talking about going for the Czechs.’
‘Whoa, newsflash! If you think the Undertaker’s capable, I’d say these boyos are way worse.’
I gave them some more details about the state of Andy in the pictures – the knife, the tongue. The message sunk in. Though maybe not deeply enough.
Hod sighed, ‘I don’t see where you’re going with this, Gus. Are you saying we just leave this to the filth? If that’s your plan then you might as well kiss fuck off to finding out who done in your brother.’
His words sounded harsh, but that was his intention. They both felt as passionately about this as I did; I was lucky to have such support in my life.
‘No, that’s not my plan.’ I picked up Radek’s address. ‘We have to pay this cunt a visit. But on our terms.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning leave that to me . . . Be ready to go when I say.’
A grin spread over Mac’s face: he scented blood. ‘Should we get tooled up?’
I thought it might not be a bad idea, but an image flashed of Arnie with that coffin full of shooters in
Terminator 3
, said, ‘I’m not planning to knock the fuckers off here. I’m only trying to get Fitz to open his eyes. The filth are looking the other way. Fitz the Crime’s got it into his head that he’s going to nab the Undertaker and get himself some new stripes. There’s more going on here . . . much more.’
‘Like what?’ said Hod.
‘I don’t know, I just can’t get a handle on it yet. Davie Prentice is sweating now because he knows we’re close to the truth and the Czechs are maybe sweating too if they topped Andy . . . I just need to draw them out into the open and hope that it comes good. If we get them rattled any more then something might fall out.’
Mac was in favour of more direct action. ‘Why don’t we just burst this Radek? All these hard nuts are pretty tinpot once you get the pliers on their pods.’
‘And what if he holds out, or we go too far? He might just be the only one who knows who did off Michael. Trust me on this, Mac, I have to find my brother’s killer, not just any killer. And when I do, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to bust heads.’