I didn’t want to be reminded. Alice should have been like those girls, having fun, laughing and joking. Preparing for a school party, Jesus, getting tipsy. How could I have been angry with her for that? I wanted to say sorry to her and hug her and promise to look after her. She’d lost her father, we’d all lost Michael; we couldn’t lose anyone else. I saw Debs’s face as I thought of Alice tied in that field. Debs would never be able to take any hurt befalling Alice, it would be the end of her too.
Jayne.
My mother.
My sister.
The list grew in my mind.
‘Come on, come on.’ I slapped at the dash. The cars sat still, going nowhere. I opened the door, got out and shouted, ‘Get moving, come on, fucking move it!’ The New Town shoppers stared at me. A woman flicked her scarf over her shoulder and muttered something to the concourse. I pounded the bonnet of the Hilux with my fists.
Mac called me, ‘Get in, Gus, you’re not fucking helping.’
That was my problem; I wasn’t helping anyone. I hadn’t been there for Michael, and now I’d let down his daughter, my niece. Knew I was transferring my own self-loathing to the surrounds. Anger and hurt burned in me.
I got back in the truck and Mac eased it through a gap in the bottleneck. He tore through York Place until we hit the roundabout. We rolled into a quiet stretch, and topped sixty most of the way to Jock’s Lodge. At Restalrig we roared through the streets, flashing anyone who got in our way with the headlights on full beam.
Mac dropped gears, threw two wheels on the pavement and hit the anchors. ‘Right, follow me.’ He opened the door and eased out of the truck. He hopped on his sore ankle but there was a steel in his gut that told me he’d tear down walls to get to fat Davie. The flat was in a street of ex-council maisonettes. There’d been no maintenance done here since before the Thatcher years, save the odd lick of paint by late-boom developers looking to turn a quick profit.
‘It’s up there,’ said Mac. He pointed to a skanky door, banging on its hinges. I went in behind him. The stair was in almost complete darkness – one dim light flickered beside the front door. A pram with a bent wheel sat in the hallway alongside a giant yellow Tonka truck that had been trashed and spray-painted. The young crew’s graffiti artists had also tagged the stairs and there was the familiar stench of Special Brew and pish everywhere.
At the top of the steps Mac pointed to another door. I didn’t need any more information, put my boot to the lock and it shed a few strips of peeling emulsion. The second kick put the whole frame in; the top hinge collapsed, spat out some screws.
As I walked in I heard the theme tune from
Only Fools and Horses
starting, another Christmas special rerun with Del and Rodney. I stormed through to the living room and a bleach-blonde stick insect with a nose piercing and an Embassy in her grid screamed at me. I put my hand over her mouth and pushed her back into the chair she’d leaped from. She screamed again, ‘Fucking cunts come into my fucking house!’ Her face lit up like a lantern as she spat.
Mac stepped from behind me and cracked a knuckle on her brow. She flopped like a deflating sex doll.
Fat Davie sat in his chewing-gum-coloured Y-fronts and a stringy semmit, toasting his stockinged toes in front of a three-bar electric heater. One of his brown socks had a hole in it; his big toe had worked its way out. He had a tinfoil Chinese carry-out box balanced on his belly and a forkful of egg noodles poised before his open mouth.
‘Hello, Davie,’ I said. The noodles dropped into the box. Some chow mein sauce splashed on his chest and he jumped with a start. Mac leaned over and smacked the carry-out from his hands. It splashed on the wall and the electric fire sizzled as the beanshoots and chicken strips bounced off its red-hot bars.
‘Gus, ehm, I was thinking about what you told me . . .’ said Davie.
I leaned forward and grabbed a bunch of his semmit, yanked him up. ‘No, you fucking fat waste of space, you
weren’t
thinking.’ I threw him to the door. ‘Folk like you never fucking think, Davie.’
He stumbled and put his hands out to break his fall. Mac pulled a pair of beige Farah slacks from the back of a chair, threw them at fat Davie. ‘Get dressed, y’cunt.’
As Mac kicked shoes towards Davie, I looked about the room. There was a travel bag and a leather briefcase sitting by the fireplace. I opened up the bag first: it was full of clothes. ‘Going somewhere, Davie?’
He jerked his head towards me, nearly lost balance as he tried to put a foot in his trousers.
‘I was just . . .’ he said.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Mac. He slapped him across the face. A trickle of blood fell from Davie’s nose and caught in his pale moustache.
I opened up the briefcase: stacks of paperwork, bankbooks, chequebooks, and a few hefty rolls tucked away underneath. I held up some twenties. Mac gave Davie another belt. The sack of shit whimpered.
‘Don’t see your tickets, Davie,’ I said, ‘for Disneyland.’
He wiped the blood from his nose. ‘What?
What
? . . .
Disneyland
?’
‘Maybe not . . .’ I shook my head. ‘I think your Donald Duck just ran out.’
Mac picked up a blazer and shoved it at Davie. ‘Come on, get your arse out that door.’
The fat fuck turned back to me, whimpered again. ‘Gus, Gus . . .’
‘Get through the door, Davie . . . If you speak nicely to him, the Undertaker might let you say a prayer before he puts you in the ground.’ I walked over and pushed him in the back. ‘But if he’s hurt my Alice, I’ll fucking dig you up and finish the job with my bare hands.’
Chapter 39
MAC PUT THE HILUX INTO gear and released the clutch. We shot out of Restalrig like the four-minute warning had just sounded. Fat Davie pleaded at my side like a spoilt child: ‘Gus, I only did what was best for Michael, I promise.’
‘Don’t use his name again.’
He whined, ‘I wouldn’t do anything to harm Michael . . . or his family.’
I lost it, put a fist in him. It was like punching a mattress; I felt my knuckles sink as I pummelled Davie’s gut. ‘I told you, don’t use his fucking name. Didn’t I tell you?’
I’d disturbed the balance of the truck – it started to slide on the road.
‘Whoa, whoa . . . Cool the beans there,’ said Mac.
I locked it down, sat back in my seat. Davie toppled over. His knees hit the ground, his legs buckled under his weight. I grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up. He winced in pain, shrieked, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong . . .’
‘Shut it.’ He sounded pathetic. I couldn’t believe the way he was still yabbering, after all he’d done. After all the grief that Davie’s antics had brought to me and Debs, to Jayne . . . the death of Michael, and Andy, and Ian Kerr. And now there was Alice. Oh Christ,
Alice
. The snow was falling heavily now: she couldn’t survive much longer.
‘Davie, let me say this only once.’ I tried to keep my voice steady, but it quivered, betraying my emotion. ‘The Undertaker has my niece bound and gagged in a field, there is a hole in the ground dug for her. The only hope for that girl is you. Do you understand?’
Davie’s face froze, turned white. His lips tightened into a knot and refused to let out any words. He nodded.
‘When I hand you over, Davie, I don’t care what he does to you. I don’t care whether he demands money or puts you in the ground . . . All I care about now is Alice.’
The words seemed to register with him; he turned away. Davie stared out of the window like a man who was watching his final moments in slow-mo. I hoped he was thinking about what he had done. About how his actions, his greed, had hurt so many others, and was hurting them yet. I wanted Davie to feel the pain I felt. I knew he hadn’t murdered my brother but he had played his part, and I wanted revenge.
The roads grew busy but Mac pushed on and flashed the oncoming traffic as we powered through the town. The snow pelted down, and the sky darkened with cloud covering; if there were night stars out, they weren’t shining over us.
Christmas Eve revellers started to appear, groups of lads tanked up on designer lager and barely dressed young girls staggering from bar to bar. In an hour the blokes would be singing ‘Danny Boy’ and the girls walking barefoot, their heels in their hands. There would be barf swimming in the gutters and aggro in the kebab shops. Just another Christmas Eve in Edinburgh, but it stung me to think of anyone enjoying themselves while Alice faced a grim death.
I looked at the thermometer in the dash: it was eight-below.
‘Can’t you go any fucking faster?’ I yelled.
‘Trying . . . trying.’ Mac rounded the bend onto the Grassmarket. A tart in reindeer antlers was touching up a guy in a Santa hat; they stood bang middle of the road, going for it. Mac slammed on the anchors, yelled out, ‘Get up a close!’
The wee hingoot twisted her face and Santa hat pulled in his belt, headed for the car. Mac yanked on the handbrake, opened the door. The guy strutted as he walked towards the truck. He put back his shoulders, gave Mac a come-ahead flick of the fingers. Mac managed three or four paces on his sore ankle, let the guy get closer on his own. When he drew up to the bumper Mac put him down with one sledgehammer right. It was clinical. He dragged him to the side of the road and got back in the cab, gunned the engine. The tart took off her antlers as we passed.
The end of the road looked like a Hieronymus Bosch painting, bodies seething everywhere. Queues from the pubs spilled onto the road. Mac blasted the horn and swerved. The Hilux mounted the kerb as we drove onto West Port; we hit fifty before Tollcross. The truck skidded to a halt outside a busy pub, folk queuing to get in already.
I leaned over and opened Davie’s door, said, ‘Out!’
He was silent now, accepting.
Mac hobbled behind me on his one good ankle, jangling the car keys. ‘Right, let’s fucking nash.’
The snowfall was heavier than I’d seen it all year, and it was the harshest winter I could remember. I thought again of Alice, out in that field, tied to a rusting tractor axle. She was so thin, so frail. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t perish. I tried to focus, to get moving. I knew I was her only hope – but I just couldn’t shake the sight of her, the image that the Undertaker had shown me on that phone haunted me.
I pushed Davie in the back. ‘I’m telling you now, Davie, anything’s happened to my niece . . . you’re fucking well done for.’
He slipped in the street, fell. The knees of his beige Farah trousers turned black. I put a grip on his belt and hauled him to his feet. His soft shoes slid about all over the pavement as he walked, glancing back at us.
‘Just fucking get going,’ said Mac.
At the Undertaker’s lap-dancing bar in the Pubic Triangle a flannel-shirted Scouser was arguing the toss after being refused entry. I didn’t recognise the doorman, but I recognised the type. I fronted up, said, ‘We’re expected.’
‘By who?’ He put in some attitude.
We didn’t have time for games and Mac knew it. His chest went out. ‘Ronnie fucking McMilne . . . Don’t play wide, y’arsehole, or I’ll hand you yer eyes.’
The lump did a mental calculation, nodded us inside. We got pointed up the stairs and told to turn left at the mirrored door. ‘Ronnie’s in the office, down the end of the hall.’
I pushed Davie up the stairs. He was dripping wet now as the snow melted on him. He stumbled and dropped into a crawl for a few steps. I put a hand under his arm and yanked him up. He gasped for air as we reached the landing.
‘Down here,’ said Mac. He led the way to the end of the corridor, pushed open the Undertaker’s door. He was the first to be greeted as we walked in.
‘It’s yer bold self,’ said McMilne, ‘Mac the Knife, indeed.’ He sat on a leather chair, his feet up on the desk as
Only Fools
spat canned laughter from a wee portable. Dartboard and Sammy picked over the remains of a pizza box that Sammy held in his hands like a chav laptop. They laughed at the telly as Del Boy and Rodney appeared in Batman and Robin costumes.
‘Ron,’ said Mac.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while, you still . . .?’ He made a slicing motion in front of him, as though he was carving someone with a Stanley blade.
Mac shook his head, turned to me.
‘Can we get down to fucking business?’ I said. ‘I thought it was this cunt you wanted to see.’ I dragged fat Davie to the middle of the room.
The Undertaker sat up in his chair; he put those falsers of his on display. ‘Ah, you found him.’ He seemed unimpressed, turned back to the telly. Dartboard and Sammy picked anchovies off the pizza, dropped them in the box. They got in the way of the telly and the Undertaker kicked off. ‘Get oot the fucking road!’
I looked away. A black-and-white monitor showed pictures from the floor of girls with their baps out, dancing round poles. I tried again. ‘Yeah, so . . . I’ve done my bit,’ I said.
The Undertaker looked irritated, turned and sized me up. ‘So fucking what?’
A bolt of adrenaline hit me, the flash of heat going to my head. I stormed over to the desk and slapped down my palms. As I moved I felt Mac pull me back but I shrugged him off, roared, ‘I want my fucking niece and I want my brother’s fucking killer!’
The Undertaker lifted a thin leg, then another, lowered his feet to the floor. He sat forward in the leather chair and made a steeple of his long fingers. ‘And just what’re you gonna do if I say no, laddie?’
Dartboard and Sammy threw down their pizza slices. I stepped away from the desk and looked at Mac. He squared his shoulders. Fat Davie trembled so much beside me that I could hear the change rattling in his pockets. The television blared on;
Only Fools
had finished – they started singing about Hookey Street being
magnifique
.
The Undertaker stood up. He was the tallest in the room by a head, but his frame was stooped as his neck jutted forward. He looked like a lamp post that had been struck by a car. ‘I’ve missed the end now,’ he said. ‘I fucking like that show as well.’