Skagboys (77 page)

It took him a while to find the rendezvous point. It was a little out of town, a rather prim alehouse with the rustic pretensions characterising many such places in suburban England. He turned into a small car park at the back of the pub, surrounded by trellis fencing which struggled to hold back the encroaching hedges and trees of the neighbouring gardens. A few lights cut through the almost pitch blackness, showing him only one other car, a black BMW. Russell parked a discreet distance from it.
It
had to be them, and they would be inside. He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, aware that his hands were shaking.

Would, these men he was preparing to meet be hardened criminals or, more likely, just dogsbodies like him, burdened with someone fearsome on their backs, compelling them to do this, just as he was with the ex-brother-in-law?

He walked into the pub via the rear doors, going through a narrow conservatory and coming into a large, low-ceilinged lounge bar. Although comfortably shy of six foot, Russell still had to duck to avoid some overhead beams. The pub was practically deserted. Even with the monstrously inclement weather, it seemed inconceivable that a bar could survive such minimal trade on a weekend night. The only other people he could see were two men, standing by a roaring fire, and a barman engrossed in the mounted television, who, in profile, looked the double of the actor who played Arthur in
On the Buses
.

Russell decided not to approach or acknowledge the men by the big stone fireplace straight away. It might be bad form, if there was any etiquette in this sort of thing. He assumed there would be; everything else had its codes, so why should this business be different?

When the barman turned face on to take his order, the Arthur effect was reduced, but not completely dispelled. Russell ordered a pint of London Pride, and was disappointed to note the man’s north of England accent, rather than Arthur’s rasping cockney. He tried to think of the actor’s name: nothing came to mind.

The two men were looking over at him. One of them, thin, with a duck’s-arse haircut, approached him, moving in a jerky manner. This puppet-like wretch seemed to have been sent by the other man; a portly, menacing figure who smiled at him with gleefully psychotic bonhomie. Russell briefly thought he knew him from somewhere, but realised it was just the grin. It belonged to every thug and bully he’d ever met.

Neither of them seemed to be carrying anything, making him glad he’d left his own package in the car boot. It would be sensible to make this transaction outside, in the dark, secluded car park. He began to feel a bit pleased with himself, growing in confidence as the first man drew alongside him.

— How d’ya do, the man lisped, in a soft but metallic voice. His accent was slightly camp, and the sickly weakness he exuded bolstered Russell’s morale further.

— Not bad. Yourself?

— Can’t complain. You come far?

— Edinburgh.

The man’s face twitched slightly in register. It was evidently some test, as meagre as it was. The man introduced himself as Marriott, making Russell immediately think of Steve Marriott from the Small Faces, a band he’d always liked. — Join us for a drink.

He could see no good reason, after that drive, not to do so. The fire was inviting, though on Russell’s approach, the other man gave out mixed signals. He didn’t extend his hand, merely acknowledged Russell with a mean smile, then moved up to the bar. He returned with three large whiskies. — Scotch. Scotch for a Scotchman, he observed, seeming pleased with himself as he settled them down on the mantelpiece.

Russell could have done with a brandy, but as he sipped the amber fluid, realised it was a decent malt, the smoky, peaty aroma perhaps indicating Islay. It warmed him, like the fire that roasted at his legs. His pint sat on the bar; he wasn’t bothered about it. — Cheers.

The stocky man finally introduced himself as Gal. — Some say it ain’t professional, this socialising lark, but I don’t agree. It’s nice to put a face to a name. Ya gotta know who yer dealing with. You need trust in this business. A covert menace bubbled under the surface of his tone. His lively tongue didn’t match his deep-set eyes, slanted at the extremity of the brows as if to suggest inbreeding. Being in his very presence caused Russell to silently curse his ex-brother-in-law, his stupid sister and his own weakness, for once again putting him in this situation. He knew his parents now regarded him as a loser like Kristen, rather than a mover and shaker like Alexander. But, and Russell gained succour from the notion, they didn’t know what he did. The other week he’d been driving up Leith Walk and he’d seen that young girl his brother was fucking, heading up into town. She’d looked different; scruffy, damaged, an obvious junky, like this Marriott character. Perhaps that was curse of his family: fatally drawn to lowlife.

After the relatively effusive welcome, Marriott now seemed to be cold-shouldering him, like he’d decided Russell wasn’t important enough to try and keep on the good side of. Then he suddenly announced, — I ain’t all that keen on people from Edinburgh. I had a bad experience with some people from Edinburgh once.

Russell looked at him, unsure of how to respond, but Gal was definitely the one calling the shots, and he gazed coldly at Marriott. — We’re talking about Seeker. He’s a friend of mine.

Marriott fell silent.

Gal kept his stare trained on him for a couple of seconds, before turning
to
Russell, the smile of genial menace back on his face. — You know The Man then?

— He’s my brother-in-law, Russell said. It seemed sensible to omit the ‘ex’.

Gal looked him up and down, seeming disappointed, certainly in Russell, and perhaps also, he fancied, in Seeker. — You poor sod.

Russell kept his face neutral, feeling that either a collusive smile or disapproving frown might be taken the wrong way.

— Anyway, Gal went on impatiently, — we can’t sit here jawing all night. Let’s get it over with, and he downed his whisky in a single gulp that strong-armed the others into doing the same. Russell noted that Marriott was struggling, his hand shaking, but Gal’s raptorial leer wouldn’t leave him till he’d finished. — That’s good Scotch, he said accusingly to his associate, who was painfully trying to fight back a gagging reflex.

The walk outside to the car park was torturous. Russell felt a creeping dread that the next thing would be a skull-splitting blow to the back of his head, the prelude to him being bundled into the boot of the BMW like a sack of coal. He’d lie briefly alongside the package in the holdall that had been gift-wrapped in birthday paper (a touch he’d almost felt moved to comment to Seeker about, but had resisted), en route to the bleak wasteland that would be his final resting place. Or perhaps he’d have Seeker’s money taken from him with force, and have to explain it all. Every heartbeat-measuring step across the dark, barren parking area seemed part of a doomed procession to the grave.

But Gal just casually went to his car, returning with a box, wrapped up in identical gift paper, and made the exchange. Russell wasn’t going to open it up and check the contents; there could have been anything in either of the packages. Both parties behind this transaction evidently held each other in a high degree of confidence.

— Safely home now, but don’t spare the horses. I hear ya got a lot of customers waiting for ya back in Edinburgh, Gal smiled again, now reminding Russell of a jaunty travelling salesman, — and tell Seeker that old Gal said hello. Then he turned to the hapless-looking Marriott. It was soul-destroying to Russell how much he empathised with this broken figure, another fellow stooge who had overstepped the mark. — Right, you cunt, let’s farking move.

Russell walked stiffly to his car with the package, leaving it on the passenger seat. He watched the BMW pull off and roll out of the car park. His hands were wet on the wheel and trembling, but elation quickly took over him. It was finished. He’d done it. It was a triumph. Now
Seeker
really owed him, surely. He’d get his cut and they would be all square.

He started the car up and drove out of the car park, heading away from town, north towards Cambridgeshire. He stopped at an old phone box, outside a garage it pre-dated. He put the package in the boot, lest a potentially fatal temptation to examine its contents grip him.

On the Buses
.

The star was obviously Reg Varney. Stan. Who played his sidekick, Jack? Blakey, that bus inspector, that actor’s name was Stephen somebody, he was sure of it. And Olive, Arthur’s wife, was played by Anna Karen. This stuck in his mind, unusual in that it was two female first names. He dialled a number on the old, black Bakelite phone, a device from another era, grimly hanging on to its tenuous commission. His ex-brother-in-law picked up. — Aye?

— It’s me. It all went okay. I mean, I never checked what was in it, I just picked up the package, like you said.

There was an unnerving silence on the other end of the line.

— Eh, Gal sends his regards.

— Fuck Gal. Get back up here, right now, wi that gear.

He spoke as if Russell was just down the street instead of over four hundred miles away. He was exhausted; he had to rest. It was dangerous, he’d be sure to draw police attention in this condition … — Look, I’m knackered. If I get pulled over or in an accident, it isn’t going to do either of us any good, he protested.

— Just get the fuck back up here now. Or thi’ll be an accident awright. Dinnae make us repeat masel again.

The alcohol burning in his gut and brain, Russell wanted to shout, ‘Fuck you! Fuck you, ya fucking ignorant bag ay shite!’ But it somehow came out as, — Okay, I’ll be as quick as I can, as the line went dead, and in tears of exasperation, Russell Birch contemplated the exhausting drive back up to Edinburgh. As he rested the phone down on the cradle, the name of the actor who’d played Arthur in
On the Buses
tauntingly popped into his head.

Junk Dilemmas No. 4

AH KNOW THAT
ah’m the one. Ah can take these circumstances and transcend them. Ah ken this because no only can ah conceptualise everything, ah can also feel it in my fibre, emotionally. Emotional and rational intelligence: ah can dae that shite. Ah’m no a fuckin junky, ah’m just playin at it. Real junkies are mugs like Swanney or Dennis Ross, or even dirty wee Matty Connell. Mingers whae’ve been intae it since the year dot. Tom’s right, it’s a phase, and ah’m jist a young gadge, fuckin aboot. Ah will grow oot ay it
.

Ah’ll be okay
.

Ah’m too brainy, too fuckin clued-up tae faw intae that sort ay trap. It sounds arrogant, aye, but it’s fuckin true. Ah ken that a certain kind ay bird fancies me and that ah can – if ah choose tae try hard enough
–
make other types be bothered
.

This shite is nothing tae me. Ah ken everybody says that; that’s the allure, aye, but in ma case it’s true, cause ah’m the real deal. Ah can fuckin well dae this and dae it easy. Ah can stop aw this at any time, through the sheer fuckin exercise ay my will
.

Just end it
.

But no right now
.

Soft Cell

THE CUNT TRIED
tae say thit he wis jist inside fir a fuckin traffic offence, bit ye ken they fuckers, they lie through thair fuckin teeth cause thir no gaunny fuckin well turn roond n say thit it wis fir noncin a fuckin bairn. Ken what they’d fuckin well git, the cunts. Bit thaire’s eywis weys n means ay findin oot aboot they cunts, fuckin surein thaire is. N ah goat the info fae a fuckin reliable source, a real fuckin mate. It wisnae jist jail gossip. Ah dinnae pey any fuckin heed tae yon shite.

N ah wisnae the only cunt thit thought he wis fuckin well dodgy; whin ah fuckin telt that wee fuckin Weedgie cunt, Albo, thit he wis sharing a cell wi a nonce, he fuckin well set it right up fir us, quick style. Aye, naebody took that much fuckin convincin aboot that cunt. Tae me that fuckin well tells ye somethin right away, fuckin right it does.

It wis easy. We’d arranged it wi the screws thit they’d turn a blind eye, they fuckin well hate nonces n aw. So ah slips intae Albo’s cell eftir dinner, n sees the Beast jist sittin thaire oan that fuckin bunk readin a book; cunt looked as plausible as fuck. Well, he wisnae foolin me, fuckin well tell ye that fir nowt. N ah kent awright, cause it wis Rents thit telt us aboot the cunt, n Rents widnae make up a fuckin tale like that, he’s no that sort ay a gadge.

So ah says tae this cunt, ‘So yir in here fir a traffic offence, aye?’ N he looks up n goes, ‘What? What d’ye want … what is this?’ his face aw that wey cunts look as if thir gaunny fuckin well try n catch flies in thir mooths, n he pits his fuckin book doon. Ah lits um stand up n ah goes, ‘Tamperin wi fuckin bairns, yir ain wee lassie n aw,’ n rams the nut oan um. Goat the cunt a fuckin beauty; ah hears the bone crack n that squeal like ye kin imagine a fuckin pig must make whin it gits its fuckin throat slit in the slaughterhoose. Well, ah wanted tae damage the cunt, tae slash his fuckin chops n carve up his fuckin noncey coupon, but withoot a chib ah jist hud tae stomp n stomp at that stoat heid, hearin the cunt still squealin, but then the noise changin intae a soft groan as he passed right oot. Ah took a pish oan the cunt, then ah felt bad aboot perr Albo’s fuckin cell so ah sais tae him oan the wey oot, cunt’s only went n pished hissel but, eh.

So that wis me fuckin well chuffed; ma good deed fir the day, giein a bairn-shaggin cunt a dose ay thair ain medicine. It wis only later oan thit ah fuckin well found oot thit the cunt’s name wis
Albert
McLeod, no
Arthur
McLeod, whae wis the cunt that Rents meant, but whae seemingly goat huckled the other month by some wide cunt n sent up tae Peterheid nick for his ain safety.

So, ah suppose, well, aye, ah fuckin well goat the wrong fuckin gadge but, eh. It wis an easy mistake tae make wi McLeod bein a common enough fuckin name n that. But that cunt ah done, ah mean, the radge jist
looked
like a fuckin short-eyes n aw, hud stoat written aw ower um. But whin ah git oot ah’ll tell Rents thit ah battered the wrong gadge. Still, every cunt makes mistakes n at least wi’ll aw be able tae sit doon wi a fuckin peeve n huv a good laugh aboot it later oan but, eh.