Twenty Twelve (12 page)

I’m barely horizontal on the bed when I fall into a delicious half sleep. I should take off my clothes but I can’t be bothered and instead I wrap my arms around the pillow. I’m not pissed – well a bit, maybe – but it’s more than that. It’s like I’ve finally come to a stop. I smile and let myself drift away. David Jason’s voice floats in and out of my consciousness. ‘This time next year . . .’

Minutes later – or maybe hours, I can’t tell – I wake. It’s dark and I’m disorientated but I’m disturbed by a noise at my door. A scratching. At first I ignore it, but then it comes again.

A prickle of fear spikes the base of my neck. Is someone trying to get into my room? I lean over to turn on the bedside lamp and blink into the light. My door is shut. I scoot over and check it. Definitely locked.

I listen carefully for the scratching noise but there’s nothing. I press my ear to the door but nothing greets me other than silence.

Slowly and carefully I unlock the door. The bombing has made me antsy and I need to know if there is anyone on the other side. The door opens an inch and I peer through the gap. Nothing. I prise it open a head’s width. Enough to get a proper look, but I keep my body weight against it in case I need to slam it shut. Nothing.

Then I see the newspaper on the floor. It’s
The Times
leading with the story that the terrorist cell has been caught. A mugshot of Miggs that must have been taken years ago stares up at me, eyes hard, scowl tight. He looks every inch the criminal and nothing like the shell of a man I met in hospital. Underneath his picture my own face grins up at me from the basketball court. The PM is quoted as saying, ‘Business as usual.’

I sigh with relief. All I heard was a paper delivery. I laugh at my own stupidity and head back to bed, leaving the paper where it is. I need more sleep.

The driver pulled up in Arnsdale Place and Clem wrinkled his nose. Shitsville Arizona.

He got out, his feet crunching on broken glass.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

At the end of the street a gang of Neds were circling a lamp post, bottles of Buckfast clamped in their fists, ignoring the rain that was now lashing down.

Clem pressed the buzzer hard and kept his finger down until an upstairs window opened.

A girl leaned out. A junkie by the looks of her. ‘What’s your fucking problem?’

Clem looked up at her, his face slick. ‘I need to speak to you,’ he said.

‘Is this about Paul?’ she asked.

Clem nodded and caught the trace of a smile at the corner of her lips. When she opened the door, he spotted the track marks on her arms that confirmed his suspicions.

‘You want to know about Paul Ronald?’ Her voice had a sneaky edge.

‘That’s right.’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘What’s it worth?’

Clem shook his head. Addicts. Always on the make. ‘Absolutely nothing,’ he said.

Her face fell. Clearly she’d been relying on him for her next fix.

‘Fucker,’ she snarled and pushed the door.

Clem saw it coming and rammed his foot against the wood. The girl tried to fight him but had little strength.

‘Away to fuck,’ she shouted. ‘What do you think you’re on, pal?’

‘I just want some information and then I’ll leave you alone.’ Clem’s tone was calm.

‘Information?’ She was screaming now. ‘I’ll give you a piece of information. I want you to piss off.’

Behind him, Clem heard the slap of trainers on tarmac. The gang of boys from under the lamp post had relocated. One stepped forward, his skinny white frame swamped by a black tracksuit.

‘Everything all right, Charlene?’

‘No it’s fucking not,’ she shouted. ‘This bastard’s trying to kick the door off.’

The boy looked Clem up and down. ‘You’re in trouble now, pal,’ he said. ‘We look after our own in the Hoose.’

Clem didn’t answer but kept his foot firmly against the door.

The driver lowered the electric window. ‘Problem?’

Another kid at the back hopped from foot to foot, laughing hysterically, completely out of it on drugs or drink or both. ‘Aye, there’s a problem.’ He stuck his head in the window. ‘We’re gonna fuck you up.’

Glancing at the crazed grin still on the boy’s face, the driver punched him hard. There was a wet smacking sound and the boy flew backwards, falling into his mates, blood spewing from his mouth.

In an instant, the others pounced at the car, smashing their bottles against it. The driver tried to put up his window but one of the gang pulled a claw hammer from his pocket and shattered it with one vicious blow. The driver was peppered with glass, small cuts appearing across his cheeks. Another jumped onto the bonnet and began kicking the windscreen.

‘See what happens?’ The first boy gave Clem a triumphant smile. ‘See what happens when you mess with the Hoose?’ Then he took out a flick knife.

Clem appraised the scene. Worked out the odds. He had no choices left.

The gunshot reverberated around the night sky. Clem had shot upwards out of harm’s way and now had his weapon trained on the boy with the knife.

The boy eyed him with contempt, but stayed put. The blade glistened but he didn’t lunge. He might be a headcase; indeed he might have more drugs in his system than Pete Doherty. But he wasn’t stupid.

‘Feds,’ he murmured.

The other boys were silenced and quickly evaporated. The boy with the knife joined them without a backward glance at Charlene, who was still in the doorway, her eyes wide.

Clem nodded at the driver who was shaking shards of glass from his hair. ‘Okay?’

The driver licked his finger and stemmed a trickle of blood coming from the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ll live.’

Clem turned to Charlene, who had let go of the door and was shivering, her arms wrapped around herself. ‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

She turned and made her way upstairs. Clem followed.

The flat stank of dirty nappies and the culprit lay asleep in a cot, one pink fist clutching a bar. Charlene closed the bedroom door and hurried into the lounge. She began scooping up syringes and empty baggies from the coffee table.

‘I’m not interested in any of that,’ said Clem.

She smiled weakly and let her works fall back among the overflowing ashtrays.

‘I’m trying to come off it, you know?’

Clem didn’t answer.

‘But it’s hard.’ Charlene went over to the window, rubbed at the grime with her thumb. ‘This place is overrun with gear.’ She looked out into the street. Somewhere in the distance a car alarm was blaring. ‘All those years I never even touched the skag ’cos everyone knows it fucks you up, and here I am on the crystal meth.’ She gave a shrug and a cold laugh. ‘Ironic, eh?’

‘Tell me about Paul Ronald,’ said Clem.

‘Whatever he was involved in had nothing to do with me,’ said Charlene.

‘I understand that.’

She walked back across the room and reached down onto the coffee table for a packet of B&H. She took one out, lit it and took a deep lungful of smoke.

‘So where is he?’ Clem asked.

‘Dead.’ Charlene let out a stream of smoke from her nostrils. ‘Overdose.’

‘When?’

Charlene took another drag, the end of her cigarette burning brightest red. ‘Christmas. He’d been inside and done his rattle. I telt him, when you’ve been off the gear for a while, you cannae just dive straight back in. You’ve got to take it steady.’

Clem nodded as if this were sensible and reasonable advice from one friend to another.

‘He wouldn’t listen,’ she said with a shrug.

So this man couldn’t be Ronnie X. Nice try, but no cigar.

‘Has anyone else been here asking about him?’ Clem said.

‘Aye. This afternoon. He was never this fucking popular when he was alive.’

It had to have been Connolly. ‘Female, white, early thirties?’ he asked.

Charlene flicked the ash from her cigarette into the cup of her hand. ‘Maybe.’

‘Athletic type?’

Charlene shrugged. ‘Good-looking and really posh.’

Connolly. ‘Right, thank you.’ Clem turned to leave.

‘You’re not going to get the social onto me, are you?’ Charlene called out.

Clem looked around the filthy flat. ‘Like I said, I’m not interested.’

Rory holds the mobile phone in his hand. He doesn’t like speaking to people on the phone. It’s not as bad as speaking to people face to face, when he can smell them and can’t concentrate on what they are saying. Or when they move towards Rory with their hand out and he has to move backwards. He hates that.

He taps the keypad and writes a text message. The first text message was sent in 1992 by Neil Papworth. It said ‘Merry Christmas’. It was a good invention. Rory presses send on his phone.

From: Rory
To: Ronnie
22.05
Information

Four seconds later his mobile rings. Rory places it at, but not touching, his ear.

‘Rory,’ says Ronnie.

Rory doesn’t speak.

‘You have something to tell me,’ says Ronnie.

More silence.

‘Is it about Joanna Connolly?’

‘Yes.’

‘What has she done?’

Rory clears his throat. ‘She used her Mastercard.’

‘Where?’

‘The Station Hotel in Glasgow.’

I’m dreaming about Davey. He’s called me up and is telling me about a TV show. It’s one we both used to love as kids.

‘It’s Friday. It’s five o’clock,’ he says, but can’t finish for laughing. One of those big Davey laughs that start as a gurgle in the back of his throat but soon turn into a bark that makes his whole body shake. Soon I’m laughing too.

When I hear a noise I ignore it. I want to hold onto Davey. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

‘I’m fine, Jo,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

I’m not laughing any more. ‘I miss you.’

‘Don’t be sad, Jo,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a tin of soup for our tea.’

I wipe the tears from my eyes. ‘What flavour?’ I know the answer but I want to hear him say it.

Before he can, I’m pulled back to reality by a sickening pain as I’m thrown onto my stomach, both arms pulled tight behind my back. I try to lift my head but a knee presses hard into my kidneys.

I try to call for help but a hand pushes firmly against the back of my head, forcing my face into the pillow. I shout into the foam, the noise blurring around me. I try to snatch a breath but my mouth is rammed full of my sweat-stained pillowcase. Lungs screaming, I realise I’m suffocating.

I thrash like a fish on dry land, panic running through me. But the assailant is on my back, and with my head and arms pinned, I can do little more than judder. In seconds, I no longer have the energy for even that.

As the oxygen leaves my brain, I see Davey once again, his hand reaching out to me. I’m just about to grab it, when a different hand takes a fistful of my hair and drags my head backwards. My neck is pulled into an unnatural position but I don’t care. I gulp down air. As my lungs fight to take in as much precious oxygen as possible, I barely register a sharp sting in my thigh.

When the room begins to sway, I realise I’ve been drugged. The hand lets go of my hair and my head flops forward, my spine unable to take its weight. The television is still on, a senseless noise in the background.

‘Do exactly as I say.’

It’s not the TV. The voice behind me sounds as if it has been through a machine. Deep, slow and unreal.

‘If you don’t do exactly what I say, I will kill you. Do you understand?’

I nod.

‘I’m going to stand you up and we are going to walk out of here.’

My entire body has gone flaccid and numb. There’s no way I’ll be able to walk.

‘If you don’t do it I will kill you.’

I nod again and allow myself to be hauled upright. A strong arm around my waist prevents me from sinking into the ground.

‘If you say one word, I will kill you.’

I know that even if I tried, my tongue would not be able to work its way around a sound, let alone a word. But I’m not going to try. Instead, I concentrate every fibre of my being on putting one foot in front of the other.

For I have learned some key lessons during these last few days. I want to do more with my life. I want to sort things out with my dad. I want to take control of my own destiny. And if I’m going to do any of these things, I must stay alive.