Ripped (53 page)

'One-Punch
McConochic
,
'
Murray
said
neutrally.
'He
wouldn't
have
dyed
black
hair
would
he
or
hang
out
at
the
casino
in
Stark
Street?'

'Eh?'
Billy
made
a
face
of
puzzlement.
'My
father
had
been watching
out
of
the
window
of
our
flat
and
when
he
saw
the
girl
fall
down
he
ran
away
down
the
stairs.
He
charged
out
of
the
close
waving
his
arms,
threatening
McConochie,
who
turned
and
ran
for
it.
I
was
proud
of
him – but
then
just
as
he
bent
over
Maisie
he
fell
down
beside
her.
I
could
see
the
foam
coming
out
of
his
mouth.
It
was
the
worst
fit
he
ever
threw
–
at
least
where
other
folk
could
see
him.'

Murray
said,
'Billy,
you're
full
of
piss
and
wind.'
Despite himself,
Murray
saw
a
picture
of
old
man
Shanks,
as
tall
as
his
son
grew
to
be,
with
the
same
big
arm
gestures
but
even
less
controlled;
everything
less
controlled,
the
man
with
the
silver
plate
in
his
head,
the
man
the
kids
in
the
street
tormented.

'My
father
couldn't
stand
to
see
anybody
being
hurt.
I
stood
at
the
back
of
the
circle
round
him.
I
couldn't
see
him,
but
I
could
hear
the
noises
he
was
making.
I
thought,
this
time
he's
a
goner
for
sure.'

'You
recognised
the
description
of
that
guy
in
the
casino
too. Right?
What
are
you
frightened
about?'

Billy
shaped
broken
clockwork
rings
with
the
base
of
his
glass
on
the
table.
'Eddy's
a
bastard,
but
it
doesn't
mean
he's
not
right
about
some
things.
You've
been
battered,
Murray.
You
don't
want
to
risk
that
again.
Let
it
go.'

'Give
me
a
name.'

Billy
sighed.
'Joe
Kujavia.'

Something
in
Murray
relaxed.
If
the
figure
in
the
nightmare
could
be
given
a
name,
perhaps
it
would
be
easier
to
sleep.
'Joe
Kujavia.'
He
weighed
it
carefully,
like
a
thing
his
hand
was
taking
into
its
grip.

'From
the
way
you
described
him,
it
couldn't
be
anybody
else.
There
can't
be
two
bastards
in
the
world
looking
like
Kujavia.
Was
he
involved
with
what
happened
to
you?'

Murray
hesitated.
'I
had
an
argument
with
Blair
Heathers.
I'm
not
telling
anybody
else
that.
Not
Eddy.
Not
anybody.'

'Don't
try
to
prove
the
connection,'
Billy
Shanks
said
bitterly.
'A
respectable
businessman
like
Heathers
and
scum
like
that –
it's
two
different
worlds.
Kujavia's
a
pimp
among
other
things,
he
runs
girls
in
Moirhill,
and
uses
an
iron
bar
on
them.
If
he
was killed
tomorrow,
there
would
be
a
hell
of
a
lot
of
people
in
Moirhill
out
dancing
in
the
streets.'

'Do
you
have
an
address
for
him?'

'No.
And
if
I
did
have
one,
I
wouldn't
be
doing
you
a
favour.
This
guy's
killed
people.
They've
never
got
him
into
court,
but
I
know.
He
battered
the
woman
he
was
living
with
to
death.
Funny,
I
always
remember
the
priest
crying.
I
was
young
then.
He
was
a
good
man
though.
It
was
him
that
looked
after
the
kids –
got
them
adopted.'

'There
were
kids?'

'The
woman
had
a
couple
of
kids.
God
knows
who
the
fathers
were.
She'd
been
married
before
she
went
on
the
game.
Maybe
one
of
the
wee
girls
was
Kujavia's.
Funny
how
you
remember
the
first
jobs
you
go
out
on.
That
bloody
priest
sitting
there
crying.
Later
you
don't
let
things
like
that
upset
you.
It's
part
of
the
job.'

But
suddenly
Murray
was
too
tired
to
talk.
He
thought
about
getting
back
somehow
to
the
flat,
getting
behind
a
locked
door,
going
to
sleep
until
the
pain
stopped.

It
was
Billy
Shanks
who
started
to
speak
again,
breaking
the silence
between
them.
'It's
a
job
you
can't
do
without
asking
questions
.
What
happened
to
you
on
Saturday
night,
did
it
have
anything
to
do
with
the
Jill
murders?'

'Is
that
what
you
call
them
now?'

Billy
shrugged.
'Nothing
in
newspapers
exists
properly
unless
you
can
invent
the
right
label
for
it.
That's
part
of
the
job
too.'

'The
Jill
Murders.'
He
gave
it
the
emphasis
of
a
headline.