The Stone Gallows (14 page)

Curry sounded like a damn good idea. I decided to make a detour.

6.4.

Home was a tenement flat in Craghill Road. Parking was on-street, in the first available space. Tonight, the first available space was nearly four hundred yards away, between a Vauxhall Astra with a cracked rear-windscreen and a transit van that looked like it had just been dragged out of a canal.

I got out of the car and made sure that the door was locked. It had been months since I had washed it and a heavy layer of dust was caked along the sides. That was good; if the local kids got the impression that somebody cared then the windows probably wouldn't survive the night. I started walking, the plastic bag that contained my dinner in my left hand, my right hand buried in the pocket of my jacket, clutching a heavy, chain-link dog lead that I had tied a knot in, creating a borderline-legal, but potentially devastating weapon. Don't believe what the politicians tell you; Glasgow may be a beautiful city, but like every beautiful city, it has a nasty side.

I just happened to live slap-bang in the middle of it.

No rain. I kept my pace up, ignoring the few pedestrians, making sure that I didn't make any accidental eye-contact and provoke a fight – not just because my face was one of the most hated in the country, but because some of the locals would pick a fight for the hell of it.

Back in my days as a police officer, the area around Craghill Road was known as Little Bosnia.

Except that the conflict in Bosnia was long over, and this place still looked like a war-zone.

The streets were pot-holed and narrow, lined with tenement flats that seemed to absorb the small amount of light the night sky had to offer, enveloping everything in a depressing curtain of perpetual greyness. Every second lamp post was dim, destroyed by a well-placed half brick no doubt thrown by a local hero. Broken plastic and glass crunched underfoot as I negotiated the cracked and pitted pavements.

I had a theory that the street lights were vandalised because most of the locals actively craved the darkness, the better to hide their nefarious lifestyles and dirty deeds done dead cheap. Furtive-looking kids loitered on almost every street corner, hair unkempt, faces pale, eyes scanning the middle distance for their drugs connection, or the patrolling police car that would blow the deal.

I had less than fifty yards to go when I spotted them: two rail thin youths who looked as if they had last eaten some time about the turn of the millennium, loitering like stray dogs outside the off-licence that was directly across the road from my flat. Sportswear, baseball caps, and expensive-looking trainers. I paid no attention to them; they were always there, part of the local scenery, peddling small time drugs and buying alcohol for anybody that might look younger than eighteen.

Just a couple of aimless kids who would drift through life until it finally caught up with them. I was so used to the sight of them that I barely noticed them, if that makes any sense.

Big mistake.

I covered the last few yards to the communal door to my tenement, taking my hand out of my pocket, feeling for where I had attached my keys to the belt hook of my trousers. It didn't register that both of them had started to cross the road just as I slid the front door key into the lock and pushed open the door. I made my way up the stairway that led to the individual flats, taking my time, blissfully unaware of the front door swinging slowly closed behind me.

Slowly enough for my two little pals to reach it before it could latch shut.

I was halfway up the first flight of stairs before I heard – too late – the gentle scuffing of rubber on concrete. As I began to turn, somebody grabbed the neck of my jacket and wrenched me back. I stumbled, my foot searching for solid ground and finding only air, my body twisting to the right, glancing off somebody else, a fist jabbing me hard in the kidney. My foot landed half on, half off one of the stairs, then slid off, the ankle turning underneath me as it hit the stair below, my knee buckling as my lower body tried to bend in three directions at once. All sense of balance was gone and I tumbled heavily back down the staircase, not far enough to break anything but plenty far enough to knock the wind out of me. I landed in a heap at the bottom.

They stood over me. ‘Give us your wallet.'

Struggling for breath, I made it to my hands and knees.

‘I said, give us your wallet.' One of them swung a foot, kicking me right in the stomach. I folded, rolling on my side and going foetal, the cold stonework against my face, unable to inhale for the leaden pain in my abdomen. In a bizarre moment of clarity, I found myself thank-ing God that Reebok didn't fit their trainers with steel toecaps. My back hurt. My shoulder hurt. My right leg felt as if it had been dipped in fire. Even my eyelids hurt.

Click.

I quickly forgot about my pain as I recognised the sound.

Flick-knife.

Opening.

A cool blade was laid against my cheek. A voice spoke softly in my ear. ‘Wallet. Now.'

‘OK,' I gasped. ‘Just. . . just let me get up.'

They stepped back and I lurched to my feet, using the stone wall to prop myself upright. The world was fading in and out, the strip light that illuminated the close pulsating – bright, dark, bright, dark. I gulped air and worked hard on not passing out. When I was sure that I could remain upright, I risked a closer look at my assailants.

Wished I hadn't bothered.

They were both skinny and ugly. Shaved heads, bad skin. The one that held the flick-knife had a Glasgow Rangers tattoo on the back of his knuckles; the other one was wearing a Celtic top. It was heartening to see the young people of Glasgow putting their differences to one side.

‘I'm gonny count to ten,' said Flick-Knife. ‘After that, I'll cut your bollocks off.'

Although unconvinced of his ability to reach such lofty numerical heights, I decided not to try and find out, slipping my hand inside my jacket and removing my wallet. ‘There you go.'

Celtic Bhouy took the wallet from my outstretched fingers and flipped through it. He held up a solitary five-pound note and looked at me in disgust. ‘This all you've got?'

I was beginning to get my breath back. It still hurt like hell, but I could feel the adrenaline flooding my system, possibilities opening as my brain finally stepped into gear. I had a choice: fight or flight. You would think that fifty billion years of evolution might have provided a third option.

I chose. ‘There's two fifties in the wee compartment.'

‘Whit wee compartment?'

‘Behind the Donor card,' I said. ‘It's got a tiny zipper.'

Celtic Bhouy's brow furrowed in concentration as he fumbled away with his thick fingers, turning the wallet this way and that as he tried to find the non-existent section I was talking about. I almost laughed as he ripped the Donor card from its mounting and tossed it to the ground.

‘It's there! You had your hand on it.' I told him, doing my best to stir things up.

It was all too much for Flick-Knife. He stretched out and grabbed the wallet from his hapless crony. ‘For fuck's sake. You're bloody useless, you are.'

Engrossed in the search, neither of them noticed as I slipped my right hand into my pocket. I gripped the dog lead, feeling for the nylon loop. I'd never used the thing in anger, but in theory, if I pulled, then the whole thing would come smoothly out of my pocket with no snagging or catching. I sagged against the wall, tilting the right side of my body away from them, breaking into a coughing fit in case the sound of the metal chain links sliding over each other tipped them off.

It didn't.

As I slowly took my hand from my pocket, the chain fell down the side of my leg, loose, heavy, ready to do some damage.

And not a moment too soon. Flick-Knife threw the wallet away and brandished his weapon at me. ‘Lying bastard. You're having us on.'

I waited, my left hand at my mouth, the chain still hidden by my body, my eyes on the knife. If he moved, I would have one shot, and one shot only. Whatever else happened, I had to take care of the knife.

He leapt forward, right arm a blur, aimed straight at my side. If I'd been any slower, he would have gutted me. As it was, I twisted just a fraction too late; the tip of the blade glanced off the side of my stomach but didn't penetrate the skin. Instead, it snagged in the material of my jacket, tearing it with a harsh ripping sound. I swung my left elbow forward into his chest, an awkward, lumbering blow that probably hurt about as much a flea bite but caused him to stagger back. I brought my right hand up, swinging the chain as hard as I could, the angle completely wrong but it was all I could do. He must have sensed movement in the corner of his eye, raising his left hand to ward off the blow. The chain wrapped around his wrist and I pulled, hard, sending him reeling off balance, planting my foot in his backside and pushing, sending him pinwheeling into his companion.

I yelled as I finally got a clear shot with the chain, swinging it as hard as I could, gravity adding momentum to the knot at the end. There was a thwack as it struck Flick-Knife's right shoulder blade, the thin material of his shell-suit providing no protection whatsoever. He screamed in pain and leapt forward directly into his pal, the two of them landing in a confused tangle of limbs at my feet.

My turn.

I swung for them, again and again, not bothering to aim, not really needing to, just leaning forward and walloping away with all my strength. Shins, thighs, calves, buttocks– the chain made a thwopping noise every time it made contact. Flick-Knife howled in agony and his weapon skittered across the concrete, coming to rest at the bottom of the stairs.

I collapsed back against the wall, my exhaustion real this time, a dull throbbing pain in my shoulder. From somewhere upstairs, I heard a door open. One of my neighbours was taking an interest.

‘Help! It's me!' I called. Then I realised how meaningless that was.

‘Cameron! I'm in the Second Floor Left! Call the police!'

There was a slamming sound. Shouting my name had been a mistake. I was never going to win any popularity contests, not tonight, not in this city. Had I been on fire, most of my neighbours would probably break out the marshmallows.

I took my mobile phone out of my pocket and dialled. Instead of a soothing voice asking me the nature of my emergency, I got a hiss of meaningless static. Concrete might be great for building tenement flats, but it's hell on telephone reception. Disgusted, I flipped my Nokia closed, only to look up to see Flick-Knife had rolled over and was watching me, a nasty cut bleeding away underneath his left eye.

God knew how that had happened; all my efforts had been concentrated on his back. His companion was still foetal, hands clenched between his thighs, a high-pitched wailing sound emanating from behind his clenched teeth.

Flick-Knife and I looked at each other balefully. ‘Little bastard,' I told him. ‘What did you want to go and do that for?'

He shrugged. ‘Easy money.'

‘You've got to be kidding,' I said. ‘Nobody round here
has
any.'

I wasn't sure what to do. Although I had gained the upper hand, I was still outnumbered. Meanwhile, the adrenaline was leaving my body, making me feel shivery and ill. My head throbbed, and the lights seemed overly bright. If I had to stand there for much longer, I was probably going to throw up on my two captives.

Which would be an ideal way to defuse the situation.

Flick-Knife levered himself upright and grabbed his pal by the ear.

‘Come on, Shabsy. Time for us to go.'

I waved the dog chain feebly. ‘Don't move.'

His lower lip twitched upward in a sneer; he knew I didn't have it in me. ‘Fuck you, Stone.'

Shabsy lumbered to his feet. His pain tolerance must have been much lower than his pal's; although there was barely a mark on him, silent tears ran down his face. His eyes burned into mine. I raised the chain. ‘Don't even think about it.'

Flick-Knife bent slowly to where his blade lay on the ground, his eyes on me all the time. ‘I'm takin' this back.'

Of course he was. Why leave evidence lying around?

Leaning on each other, the two of them trudged their way to the door. I let them go, too sore and nauseous to do anything else. They were just punks. Craghill's a closed community, assault cases nothing more than an everyday occurrence. Even if their identities could be discovered, friends and relatives would swear blithely that on the evening of the ‘alleged' attack, my assailants had been at bible class, or maybe volunteering at the local old-folks home. Without witnesses, it was an unwinnable case, and as an ex-copper, nobody understood that better than me.

After a few minutes, I felt slightly better. Well enough to cover the last few steps to my flat, where I planned to assess the damage in the privacy of my own bathroom. Moving like I had a damn good case of arthritis, I grabbed my wallet. The plastic bag that held my dinner lay where I had dropped it. I picked it up, surprised to find that apart from some minor seepage, the foil containers were still sealed. It was my first – and last – lucky break of the evening.

As I trudged up the stairs, it occurred to me; how had Flick-Knife known my name? Although my face had been plastered over the front page of every newspaper in the land, the accident had been months ago, and neither of my attackers looked as they had much interest in current events. They seemed more the type to dispense with the pesky front part of the paper and head straight to the sports pages at the back.

I lost interest the minute I reached the front door to my flat, where somebody – possibly my two pals – had left me an unpleasant little surprise.

6. 5.

Somebody had daubed the words BABY KILLER across my front door. The letters were large and looked like they had been made in a hurry. The paint had run in thick, messy drips. I stood and looked at it for thirty seconds, anger passing through my body like a wave, rising, peaking and then subsiding into a trough.