Loss (25 page)

‘For what? I can’t go around throwing just anyone in jail, especially foreign nationals. You want me with an international incident on my hands?’

I got up. I’d heard enough. I knew Fitz hadn’t moved the case on an inch since our last meeting: he was still sitting around waiting for the Undertaker to fuck up and get his next glamour collar. ‘I’m sure it’ll all fall in your lap.’

As I bent down to pick up the envelope he grabbed my arm. ‘C’mon, sit back down, Gus.’

I didn’t trust him when he called me by my first name. ‘Why?’

He nodded to the package. ‘That wasn’t the only reason I called you out.’

‘No?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

I sat back down. ‘Go on, then.’

Fitz put a fat finger above his tie, stretched the loop wider, ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but . . . We had your niece down the station the other night.’

‘Alice?’ I wondered what she’d been up to now. Did I want to hear?

‘Nothing heavy: she’d had a jug of something with a group of the local young crew . . . The uniforms printed her, took her down the cells, but I drove her home.’

I panicked – how had Jayne taken it? ‘Her mother?’

Fitz shook his head. ‘No. No. I never told the mother, woman has enough on her plate, I’m sure . . . Very bad time of year for, y’know, this type of thing.’

I scratched the top of my head, let out a long sigh. ‘Thanks again.’

‘No bother. I’d keep an eye on the lass, though. She was a bit . . . emotional.’

‘Emotional?’

Fitz drew a deep breath, exhaled. ‘About her father . . . I’d say she’s struggling to get to grips. It’s a bad age for her; I know, I’ve got daughters myself.’

I thanked him again, nodded. Said, ‘I’ll have a word.’

‘Mind your family, Gus. Leave the investigation to us.’

I stood up, said nothing. Anything I thought to mention would only make him flare up.

He grabbed my arm. His eyes burned into me. ‘I mean it: think how they’d take another loss so close to home.’

I COULDN’T BEAR TO OPEN the envelope from Fitz.

I looked at it: a padded manila job, dog-eared corners; on the front a white label with my brother’s name and a case number written in black marker pen. I couldn’t stop my imagination picturing what was inside, but I didn’t want to go there yet.

I remembered Michael lying in the mortuary, how pale he’d looked, so still. The small grey hole beneath his heart, barely a half-inch wide, where the bullet had entered, and taken his life.

I sat with the envelope on my lap, then brought it up to my chest.

‘Och, Michael.’

The blood was coursing through my arms as I gripped tightly to the package. I felt ready to howl out my hurt. I was ready to tear down the world that had taken away my brother. ‘I find who did this, Michael . . . I’ll kill them. I promise you. I’ll take a life for yours.’

I got up too quickly from the couch – black dots flashed at the edges of my field of vision. I needed another wrap. I took the envelope through to the bedroom and put it on top of the wardrobe. I played with the idea of taking it straight to Jayne, but I knew she wasn’t ready for that kind of shock either.

I fired some more speed, felt twitchy. The backs of my eyes itched; felt like scooping them out with spoons. Knew I was ramping up, raring to go mental. I’d reached the point where I just didn’t want to think any more about how things might play out; I didn’t care, it was an irrelevance now. The loss I felt was all-consuming. I was ready to start with the scatter gun; if I took down some innocents along the way, so be it.

I picked up my mobi. One side of it was covered in slap. I looked at the window ledge where I’d sat it and saw a thin layer of Debs’s face powder; there was an oblong imprint where the mirror usually lay. It looked like dust had settled, as though more time had passed than was possible; the image tripped me out. I dipped my fingertip in the powder and watched the sheen transfer itself. It felt like touching a ghost.

I turned away. Rubbed my fingertip on the couch as I sat down, then buffed my phone in the same way. The powder showed up on the couch like a shiny film of grease. I rubbed at it with my hand but it wouldn’t go away. I put a cushion over it.

I went into my contacts. I had two calls to make; the first to Alice went straight to voicemail. Thought,
Fucking hell.
I hate talking to machines, said: ‘Hi, kiddo, it’s Gus . . . Can you give me a call? Just wanted to check how you were doing. Is everything okay? Jeez, I don’t suppose you’d say, would you . . . Look, just go easy on the Scrumpy Jack, eh . . . I know what I’m talking about, here . . . Right, so give me a call, huh? Be good, Alice, I’ll see you soon.’

I winced at the pathetic tone of my message; I was trying too hard and I knew she’d sense that right off. I dropped the phone, got up, cursed myself and sat back down. I vowed to do a better job with the next one.

‘Hello, David Prentice speaking.’ I was surprised fat Davie had answered his own line, but then again, wondered why I should be – way things were headed in that place.

‘I’ve got a message to give to you, Davie.’

‘Who is this?’

I laughed down the phone. ‘Don’t play the wide cunt with me.’

‘Gus?’

‘Got it in one. Now let’s see if you can keep up that perfect score. I have a message for you from guess who.’

‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ He actually managed to press a note of indignation into his tone.

‘Fucking smart up, Davie . . . Do you really think I’m messing about? If you do, then maybe I’ve got to come and take you for another birl up the Craigs.’

His breathing faltered. ‘No. No. I’m sorry, I understand, I-I mean, who? Erm, Ronnie? Is your message from Ronnie McMilne?’

‘He shoots, he scores. That’s two out of two, bonnie lad.’ I lit a tab, let him hear the burn of it down the line. ‘Let’s try for a hat-trick, eh?’

Silence. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.

‘Yes . . .’ said Davie.

‘Good, good. Now, your friend and mine, the happy, smiley Undertaker, has got it into his head to be fucked off about something . . . What do you think that might be, Davie?’

He paused; I could hear him scratch the stubble on his chin. ‘I know what that might be.’

‘Oh, you do? . . . Great, because if you get the hat-trick, Davie, you win a prize. Know what it is? It’s, well, it’s not much of a prize, it’s your sorry arse. You get to keep your sorry arse above the ground.’ I let the words settle, took another blast on my Marlboro. ‘Tell me then, Davie, what the Undertaker told me to remind you?’

He stammered, spat words: ‘The trucking . . .’

I jumped up, yelled, ‘Un-fucking-believable! . . . Davie Prentice, you are a winner!’ I threw myself back on the couch. ‘Yes, Davie, the Undertaker wants you to keep on trucking. He wants you to tell your Czech friends to get tae fuck and he wants you to know that every week that goes by that he’s short of some Polish vodka to punt in his pubs, that’s another fifty Gs you owe him. How does that grab you? And don’t say by the balls.’

No answer.

I heard movement on the other end of the line. ‘It’s not for me to—’

‘Oh, no, you’re not going to blank our friend Ronnie, in favour of your new friends, are you?’

‘I–I . . .’

‘Come on now, Davie. Are you telling me you’ve got a better offer?’

‘Gus, it’s not as simple as that. You don’t understand what kind of people we’re dealing with. I–I . . . I mean, we’re not dealing with rational people here.’

I adopted a sarky voice. ‘Are you saying they’re the kind of people that might do you some damage if you crossed them?’

Fat Davie’s words trembled over the phone: ‘I think that’s understood.’

I sat up straight. Hammered nails into my pitch. ‘What’s understood, y’cunt, is that you’re about to be thrown to the wolves, Davie . . . Just like you did to my brother.’

I hung up.

HOD PUSHED THE HILUX HARD. I nearly ate my chips backwards as he tore through the gears. He amber-gambled on the lights and clipped a traffic cone at Waterloo Place. A ned in a Burberry cap, wankered on Buckie, held up the bottle in approval as we passed. I turned to Mac and laughed. There was no point slamming Hod’s driving – it was an expression of his masculinity that went way beyond criticism as far as he was concerned.

‘Look at that wee fannybaws in the hat,’ said Hod.

‘You look at the fucking road,’ Mac told him, ‘you’re gonna tip this motor.’

‘Bullshit. I’m rock . . . look at me!’ Hod took his hands off the steering wheel and held them in front of him. ‘Steady as the day is long.’

Mac lunged for the wheel. ‘Get them back, y’arsehole.’

I had to laugh. It was like Bill Murray in
Stripes
, taking the pictures of the old cow in the fur. ‘Mac, he’s pulling yer chain,’ I said. ‘Don’t play up to it.’

Mac leaned forward, took the bolt-cutters from the floor. ‘I’ll pull his fucking teeth!’ He was only half joking – I could see him having a go at it.

Hod fell into a throaty laugh. ‘You crack me up, Mac boy . . . This is gonna be fun, eh!’

Mac snapped the cutters at him, got so close he threatened to catch the tip of Hod’s tache. I thought they seemed a wee bit too hyped for what we had planned, but I let it slide; I was pumped for the job myself. The Czechs weren’t an outfit to mess with – I’d seen what they’d done to Andy Gregory and Ian Kerr – but if the filth weren’t digging them out, then somebody had to.

We got through Leith Street before the buses left the stops but got snagged on the roundabout at Picardy Place. Hod tried to change lanes. ‘Fucking tram works. Who wants shoogly cars anyway? . . . We’ll never get down the Walk.’ He pushed his way in front of a bloke in a white van, took pelters and a blast on the horn. I eyeballed the driver and he looked away. Thought: Wise back-down, fella. Testosterone shot about in the cab like electricity looking for an earth. First wido to cross us was likely to be fitted for a plaster-of-Paris jumpsuit.

On Broughton Street Hod cut a right and revved too high, sent the wheels spinning on the icy road. Mac had let up complaining, turned on the radio. Some talking head banged on about more casualties in the economy. So many retail chains were folding we’d soon have nothing but boarded-up shopfronts.

Hod sighed, ‘I didn’t see Woolies going under, that was a shocker.’

‘What about the old MFI?’ said Mac. ‘That’s gonna hit the doer-uppers.’

Hod scrunched his brows. ‘What you on about, doer-uppers? There’s no fucking housing market left. It’s ground to a halt.’

Mac barked, ‘That’s maybe why they went bust then, eh.’

The pair still sparred as I leaned over and turned up the volume to drown them out. Another gobshite had come on the airwaves, said, ‘It is time to end the workshy’s reliance on the state.’ I thought he was on about our government ministers until I sussed that he was one himself.

‘Och, fucksake . . . they’re slicing into the jammy roll now,’ I said.

Mac’s attention shifted: ‘The dole’s being cut?’

We listened to the political pigmy who had been fronted to deliver the news that, as the multi-billion packages to bail out banks had to be paid for somehow, there were going to be cutbacks in the dole.

‘That’s bad news,’ I said.

Mac riled up: ‘Says he wants a million folk off benefits whilst the country’s losing jobs left and right.’

‘This is going to end in anarchy . . . Watch this space: we’ll be stringing them from lamp posts.’

Hod joined in: ‘Put me down for some of that. I’ll even bring my own fucking rope.’

The temperature in the Hilux rose. I wound down the window a couple of inches but the air outside was too cold, had to close it again. I read the thermostat in the dash – it was four-below. As we drove past the banana flats, down to the waterfront, I saw frosted windscreens on every car parked along the side of the road. Some of the roofs had an inch or two of hardened snow on them. In the gutter, the night before’s beer tins lay trapped in the frozen puddles.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ I asked Hod.

‘Aye, I did a wee dry run last night.’

‘Any sign of life at the place?’

‘I didn’t stop, just drove by . . . Nice big hoose.’

Hod’s detour to miss the tram works on the Walk meant we had to snake back through the side streets, but the entire port was in disarray: building materials dumped in the roads, cables stacked up against dumper trucks, machinery waiting to be carted to the site of the main track work.

As we reached the Links, I checked the road for a black Pajero. Plenty of cars were parked up along the kerb, but I didn’t see a Pajero. Hod spied a space, pulled up. We sat opposite an old No Ball Games sign; a newer foreign-language one had gone up beside it.

‘The fuck’s that?’ said Hod.

‘Polish,’ I told him. I’d read in the paper that the city’s Polish community had been congregating on the Links in big numbers – there’d been some revelry. ‘Apparently, the toon cooncil has had complaints about some big-time Polish piss-ups . . . It’ll be a warning notice.’

‘Pish-ups on the Links, eh,’ said Mac, he started to snigger. ‘Whatever next.’

‘I know, it’s not like the place isn’t hoachin’ with brassers and our own home-grown jakeys.’ The double standards folk applied to migrants appalled me; the way our own country was going, we’d all be migrants ourselves soon enough.

Hod picked out the house for us. It was a large Georgian number, would have cost some poppy back in the boom but my guess was, current climate, no one would be able to shift it. The building sat over three storeys, with a basement level and, I’d guess, substantial extensions to the rear.

‘Looks empty,’ said Mac.