Gutted, page 22
‘Oh yeah.’
Through the forest and out the other side we hit a clearing, another dirt track. In the open I could see it had been churned up quite a bit. Deep puddles and a mush of black earth indicating some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.
‘Looks like we’re getting close.’
‘According to this,’ Hod waved the map, ‘we should be just about there.’
‘Hold up . . . what’s this?’
A big biffer in a black leather jacket, shaved head, unshaven face, approached. He had a moustache that would put Harley handles in the shade. As he got closer I saw he looked like the late Ollie Reed, matched him for size and sheer shit-stopping radgeness.
A hand went up. Hod braked, wound down the window. ‘All right, mate.’
Not a flicker; cold eyes. ‘What you up tae?’
‘We’re, eh . . . friends of the big man.’
‘Aye, spare me that shite . . . You got Hosie’s map?’
‘Hosie . . . oh, right, the wee hoodie.’ Hod held up the map.
The biffer stuck a hand through the open window. Four sovereign rings played for attention with some nasty spider’s-web tats. One inky near the wrist read CUT HERE. He grabbed the map, tucked it in his pocket then pointed out to the left: ‘Take the motor over there, by that wee clump ay trees. You can park in front ay the barn. Pit’s on the inside.’
Hod put the car in gear, raised a little wave in gratitude, then drove for the barn. ‘You see his face?’ he said.
‘The scar . . . fucking deadly.’
‘Never seen a Mars bar like that before.’
I knew what he meant: it wasn’t a clean cut, it was jagged. ‘What do you think, a bottle fight?’
‘Maybe a dog attack . . . or maybe someone just wanted him to look carved up good and proper.’
I didn’t like to think about it. I touched the barrel of the Mossberg for reassurance.
As Hod parked the car I got out, hit myself up with another blast of vodka. The bottle near emptied on me. I held it in my hand, staring at it until Hod appeared at my side and said, ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ I raised the bottle again, finished the dregs.
‘Got you in some shit that stuff, hasn’t it.’
It was a low blow, but could I fault him? It was perfectly pitched.
I threw the bottle, watched it smash on a tree, said, ‘C’mon, let’s do this.’
I put my collar up as we strode towards the barn doors. There were angry pit bulls chained to car axles that had been staked into the ground. Every one of the dogs strained to break free and attack its nearest neighbour. An Irishman stood pointing to one of them, highlighting each of its scars and regaling a slope-shouldered yoof in trackies with tales of the fights it had won.
Inside the place was hoachin. Like a cattle auction. Men stood three, four deep around the centre of the barn. Light was poor, save at the midpoint, where some old storm lanterns were suspended from the roof beams.
We edged our way closer. Suddenly the crowd seemed to disperse.
‘Are we too late?’ I asked Hod.
An old gadgie, baseball cap turned round, answered for him: ‘Utter fucking shite pagger that was. Where they got that useless wee cunt in there I’ve no idea.’
Hod smiled. ‘A mismatch?’
‘Mismatch? Fucking bloodbath – look at it.’
I got to the front of the crowd to see what he was on about. A ring, maybe fifteen feet wide, had been set up. Inside was a forty-pound snarling pit bull shaking the virtually lifeless body of what looked like the same breed. The near-dead animal had remarkably similar markings to Usual. I felt my heart pound.
I turned away. My hand raised automatically to my mouth.
From nowhere, I felt my arm knocked down. ‘Don’t make that face, Gus,’ said Hod.
The stench of blood was everywhere. I felt my guts heave. ‘Hod, this is foul.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
They separated the two dogs and the victor was raring to go again. The loser merely lay down. Exhausted and unable to move, it stared at its handler. The ground was a blanket of blood. The handler – a hardy neckless type – picked the animal up by the scruff and hauled it to a barrel in the corner of the barn.
‘What’s he gonna do with it?’ I asked Hod.
Under breath: ‘Shut up, Gus.’
I watched the guy lift the dog into the barrel and hold it down in there for a few minutes. It was only when the dog was removed, dripping with water, that I realised its reward for fighting to near-death for its handler was to be drowned.
The crowd started shouting for more, baying for blood.
‘I don’t think I can watch this,’ I said.
Hod started to get rattled. He placed his hand on my elbow. ‘You don’t think what?’
I saw another vicious pit bull – this one must have weighed fifty pounds – being led from the front of the barn. He struggled and clawed to get to the ring. His handler, a teeny lightweight in head-to-toe Adidas, struggled to hold on to him. He jerked the choke chain, yelled at him. The dog ignored all of it. He was ready to kill. Primed.
In the ring another pit was already waiting, similar size, raring to go. All around us grown men were roaring.
A loud call went up: ‘Release the dogs.’
In a second the two beasts were unleashed; they collided like the bottle I’d just smashed on a tree. The noise of their skulls connecting hurt my ears. They were both thrown in the air, a shower of teeth spraying the crowd.
‘Hod, this is sick.’
‘Dury, get a grip.’
I turned away. At the other end of the barn I saw a flash of white. I thought I’d seen a ghost. Then I saw it again. The shape was more visible this time. I recognised it as a dog. But not a pit bull, or anything like it. It was a white poodle. Somehow the dog had evaded its handlers. My guess, it sensed its fate.
I knew this dog was the intermission – some very light entertainment between bouts. I followed its attempts, running frantically the length and breadth of the barn, looking for an escape; it couldn’t find one. Suddenly it was grabbed by the scruff. Jostled about a bit, yelled at. It turned its little snout away from the lad doing the yelling. I clocked him at once: it was our Corrado driver.
‘I’m sorry, Hod.’
‘What do you mean you’re sorry . . . sorry for what?’
I opened up my Crombie. Felt for the handle of the Mossberg. ‘I’m sorry for this.’ In a second I raised the shooter.
The sound of the gun’s discharge made everyone in the room duck in unison. A few turned skywards as they crouched, expecting to see the roof come down. I cut a path through the crowd, pushed people aside left and right. No one seemed too bothered to stop me.
A voice yelled out, ‘Police, stay where you are!’ It was Hod. Self-preservation or initiative, I didn’t care which – it did the trick. The place emptied with a stampede.
In a few seconds I was on the yob with the poodle. He saw me heading his way and dropped the dog, scampered.
‘Fuck . . . Hod, get that fucking dog!’
I watched Hod lower his arms, call to the dog, but it was all over the place.
‘Get fucking after it!’
The barn emptied in a hurry, people running for the hills. This shit you don’t want to get hoyed in for.
I set off after the yob. He was dressed all in white, trackies and top to match. It made my job easier. ‘I’ll blow yer fucking head off!’ I yelled.
He was fast, through the back of the barn and the path skirting the trees to the clearing. I tried to catch him but my lung capacity had been seriously reduced by years and years of full-on tab usage.
‘Stop, you little prick!’
At the clearing where the cars were parked, I caught sight of him sliding across the front of a bonnet, Dukes of Hazzard style. I raised up the shooter, but he was gone behind another car, ducking and weaving for dear life. ‘Shit, this fucker’s fast.’
Everywhere cars pulled out, screeched tyres. Engines revved all around, was like the starters’ line-up at the Indy 500.
As I got to the first row of cars I heard an engine roar, then coming straight for me, right down the middle of the road: it was the Corrado.
I raised the gun.
I shouted, ‘I’ll fucking use this!’
My warning didn’t register. Driver went straight for me.
I’d no choice, dived out of the way. As the car screamed past, I got to my feet, fired off a round. It put out the back window. Glass exploded all over the dirt track, settled for a second, then was mashed in by the flood of fast-moving cars.
As I stood up I caught sight of a brand-new Audi being driven like it was a Knockhill wrecker. Behind the wheel was a face I recognised, but the one sitting next to it told a whole other story.
Chapter 46
THERE WAS NO sign of the resident plod lurking outside so we washed up back at the Holy Wall. Mac had a pint of Guinness ready and waiting for me on the bar. I knocked the head off it quick smart. Soothed like an old friendship. Felt like medicine.
The white poodle played on the floor with Usual. Hod laughed. ‘Christ, it’s a hard dog that you’ve got, lads – mates with a poodle.’
Mac went off, ‘Get that dog down to the fucking pound. It’s someone’s pet – they’ll be looking for it!’ He pointed Hod to the door, puffed his chest. ‘And get a fucking shave, ye gypo!’
Not biting, Hod moved off. ‘I was only joking. I’m going. I’m gone already.’
Mac walked behind the bar, picked up a bag of KP nuts, raised another bag for me. I declined. As he munched away he let his thoughts escape. ‘Well, that sounded like it was all a complete fucking farce.’
‘How do you gather that?’ I said.
‘They got away.’
‘Ah but . . .’ I got out of my stool, reached over for a bottle of Haig, poured out a wee goldie, downed it.
Mac grew impatient. ‘But what?’
‘We got a direct hit on the car . . . and I caught sight of a very cosy scene that will take some looking into.’
‘What?’
‘Sid the Snake and Jonny Johnstone sharing a motor.’
A head-shake, rapid eye movement, a swallow. ‘I’m gonna stretch that wee cunt’s neck.’
I raised my pint, pointed a finger. ‘Hold that thought.’
I left Mac in the bar, went out to the hallway to make a phone call. My mind was on one thing, and one thing only. In the midst of such an overwhelming crisis, I couldn’t believe I was focusing on this.
By the back door sat a cardboard box. Inside were old pictures of my father in his playing days. By the look of it, old Scottish Division One. I remembered a row with the Wall’s original proprietor, Col, about these very pictures. He’d taken them down so as not to offend me. As I looked at them now, I wished he’d thrown them out altogether. I laid a kick into the side of the box, heard a loud crack from the glass.
‘The fucking last I want to see of you.’
I dialled up Debs’s number.
Ringing.
An answer: ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Debs, it’s—’
‘I know who it is.’
Well, that was something. ‘Are you all right now?’
‘Gus, I’m always all right.’
I knew what she meant: there is all right and there is well – the two aren’t the same thing.
‘I wondered if you were still, y’know . . .’
‘Gus, you don’t need to worry about me.’
‘Debs, c’mon, you were in bits when I saw you. I don’t stop caring just because you’re out of sight. You know that.’
Silence.
The gap on the line stretched out.
‘Debs . . . Debs, you still there?’
I heard her begin to cry down the line. ‘Gus, I’m sorry . . . I just can’t play the hard bitch any more.’
‘You were never that, ever.’
Sobs. ‘I just feel like it’s all getting to me now.’
‘What, Debs, the baby thing?’
‘Gus, it was a fucking abortion – can’t you say the word?’
I could say it; I just didn’t want to. And moreover, I knew she didn’t want to hear it. ‘Stop it, Debs. Just stop torturing yourself.’
‘Why? Have you got the monopoly on that?’
‘No, I—’
‘Gus, why did you call?’
Why did I call? I wondered that myself. Did I want to help her? Was I being selfish? ‘I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I, Gus . . . This is all pointless. You know we’re not going to get back together, don’t you?’
I felt wounded. I had no hopes of us getting back, no real ones anyway. But to hear her say this cut deep. ‘Of course not, Debs . . . I only wanted to . . . Christ, do I need a fucking appointment now to check on you?’
Silence again.
‘Debs. Debs.’
‘I’m going to go now, Gus.’
‘What have I said?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m just going to go.’
‘Debs, just tell me you’re okay.’
I heard her voice start to quiver; her words struggled to get out. Tears, more this time. ‘I told him, Gus.’
So Jonny knew. I wanted to ask how much he knew. ‘You told him everything?’
‘I told him why I can’t have children, Gus.’
Debs’s voice came clouded in sobs. I wanted to be there for her now, put an arm around her, tell her it was all going to be okay. Tell her it was better out in the open. Any old cliché, just to make her feel better.
‘You did the right thing, Debs.’
She yelled down the phone, ‘No, Gus, I didn’t! I never do the right thing. Never. I never do that.’
‘What do you mean, Debs? What do you mean?’
‘I can’t save you this time, Gus . . . I just can’t.’
I didn’t understand. ‘I’m not with you . . .’
‘Gus, I’m not able to . . . I just can’t do it. I don’t know what you expect me to do. Jonny isn’t in my control, you know.’
This was out of left field. ‘Debs, I don’t want you to do anything for me.’ I didn’t want her to put herself in any danger; I’d go down for Moosey’s murder before that happened. I couldn’t believe I’d given her any other impression. ‘Debs, I only want you to be happy. I’m sorry if I—Debs, Debs . . .’
She’d hung up on me.
Chapter 47
SID THE SNAKE’S street was quiet, maybe too quiet. After the raid we’d staged on the pit fight Hod had word that certain folk were none too chuffed. I anticipated another howk from Rab’s pugs but was more concerned with some rasslin’ of my own.
We sat just up from Sid’s gaff and waited. He had to emerge sooner or later and when he did I’d be there. And more worryingly for him, so would Mac the Knife.
‘You look pumped.’
Mac squeezed the steering wheel. ‘That wee prick’s gonna be pumped.’
‘You’re remembering your record, of course.’
A laugh, cut in half, replaced with a smile. ‘I’m playing my record!’
There was some movement down the street; Sid’s door opened. Two skelky yoofs stepped out and slouched themselves into the wind. I couldn’t see their faces hidden behind hoodies. I let them traipse along the pavement. When they passed the van I saw one of them had a bag over his shoulder.
‘What you think’s in there?’ I said.
‘Fuck knows . . . Skag? Could be anything. They’re in with Rab and he’s into it all.’
I thought about going after the yob for a look, but then Sid’s door opened again and I was harshly thrown back in my seat.
As Mac brought the van to a halt there was a screech of tyres. A gust of black smoke lingered in the air as I pulled open the slide door. Sid stood on the pavement wide-eyed, his mouth drooping like a feedbag above his scrawny neck. I reached out and grabbed him by the collar. He was surprisingly light as I threw him into the back. Mac spun the wheels again as the door slammed shut.
I said nothing, let Sid wonder.
I kept eyes on him as he jittered before me, wiping a dribble from the side of his mouth.
He looked like a cornered rat, hunched over and ready to bound away first chance he got. His thin knees poked through his keenly pressed denims like tent poles. In the van there was an atmosphere you couldn’t mistake. Sid was shitting himself. Not literally, but if he was you wouldn’t catch it over the reek of Blue Stratos he was wearing.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he said finally.
I blanked him.
‘C’mon, this is out ay order. I’ve told you all I know before.’
I rubber-eared him again.
He banged on the side of the van, yelled, ‘Hey, let me out!’
He’d pushed his luck. I leaned forward and grabbed Sid by the neck. He squirmed; hands shot up as he tried to speak. His voice came like a croak, but there were no words he could form.
I watched Sid struggle before me, slap my hands pathetically, then I smacked his head off the side of the van.
He slumped, hands clawing at his collar, gasping for air.
Mac shouted to us, ‘What the fuck’s going on back there? . . . If I’ve to stop this van I’ll do the cunt here and now.’
Sid’s feet paddled on the floor of the van as he retreated from me in blind panic.
I said, ‘He’s settled now. If he moves again, I’ll do him myself.’
We drove for an hour.
Mac had obviously done this before; he knew how to stretch out the tension.
None of us spoke, though I swore I saw Sid mouthing the rosary. His complexion had gone from the natural schemie grey to white as a maggot. He sat with his knees folded under his chin and his arms wrapped around his shins. Only occasionally did he look in my direction and if he caught my eye he’d divert his gaze promptly.
I saw through the front windscreen that Mac had driven us out into the country. We were coming off a B road and heading down a dirt track. I saw trees. Don’t ask me what kind – I’m from Leith – but they were lined up along the banks of a little burn. They had thick branches, kind you could get a rope over; more than strong enough to hold a skelf like Sid.
Through the forest and out the other side we hit a clearing, another dirt track. In the open I could see it had been churned up quite a bit. Deep puddles and a mush of black earth indicating some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.
‘Looks like we’re getting close.’
‘According to this,’ Hod waved the map, ‘we should be just about there.’
‘Hold up . . . what’s this?’
A big biffer in a black leather jacket, shaved head, unshaven face, approached. He had a moustache that would put Harley handles in the shade. As he got closer I saw he looked like the late Ollie Reed, matched him for size and sheer shit-stopping radgeness.
A hand went up. Hod braked, wound down the window. ‘All right, mate.’
Not a flicker; cold eyes. ‘What you up tae?’
‘We’re, eh . . . friends of the big man.’
‘Aye, spare me that shite . . . You got Hosie’s map?’
‘Hosie . . . oh, right, the wee hoodie.’ Hod held up the map.
The biffer stuck a hand through the open window. Four sovereign rings played for attention with some nasty spider’s-web tats. One inky near the wrist read CUT HERE. He grabbed the map, tucked it in his pocket then pointed out to the left: ‘Take the motor over there, by that wee clump ay trees. You can park in front ay the barn. Pit’s on the inside.’
Hod put the car in gear, raised a little wave in gratitude, then drove for the barn. ‘You see his face?’ he said.
‘The scar . . . fucking deadly.’
‘Never seen a Mars bar like that before.’
I knew what he meant: it wasn’t a clean cut, it was jagged. ‘What do you think, a bottle fight?’
‘Maybe a dog attack . . . or maybe someone just wanted him to look carved up good and proper.’
I didn’t like to think about it. I touched the barrel of the Mossberg for reassurance.
As Hod parked the car I got out, hit myself up with another blast of vodka. The bottle near emptied on me. I held it in my hand, staring at it until Hod appeared at my side and said, ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ I raised the bottle again, finished the dregs.
‘Got you in some shit that stuff, hasn’t it.’
It was a low blow, but could I fault him? It was perfectly pitched.
I threw the bottle, watched it smash on a tree, said, ‘C’mon, let’s do this.’
I put my collar up as we strode towards the barn doors. There were angry pit bulls chained to car axles that had been staked into the ground. Every one of the dogs strained to break free and attack its nearest neighbour. An Irishman stood pointing to one of them, highlighting each of its scars and regaling a slope-shouldered yoof in trackies with tales of the fights it had won.
Inside the place was hoachin. Like a cattle auction. Men stood three, four deep around the centre of the barn. Light was poor, save at the midpoint, where some old storm lanterns were suspended from the roof beams.
We edged our way closer. Suddenly the crowd seemed to disperse.
‘Are we too late?’ I asked Hod.
An old gadgie, baseball cap turned round, answered for him: ‘Utter fucking shite pagger that was. Where they got that useless wee cunt in there I’ve no idea.’
Hod smiled. ‘A mismatch?’
‘Mismatch? Fucking bloodbath – look at it.’
I got to the front of the crowd to see what he was on about. A ring, maybe fifteen feet wide, had been set up. Inside was a forty-pound snarling pit bull shaking the virtually lifeless body of what looked like the same breed. The near-dead animal had remarkably similar markings to Usual. I felt my heart pound.
I turned away. My hand raised automatically to my mouth.
From nowhere, I felt my arm knocked down. ‘Don’t make that face, Gus,’ said Hod.
The stench of blood was everywhere. I felt my guts heave. ‘Hod, this is foul.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
They separated the two dogs and the victor was raring to go again. The loser merely lay down. Exhausted and unable to move, it stared at its handler. The ground was a blanket of blood. The handler – a hardy neckless type – picked the animal up by the scruff and hauled it to a barrel in the corner of the barn.
‘What’s he gonna do with it?’ I asked Hod.
Under breath: ‘Shut up, Gus.’
I watched the guy lift the dog into the barrel and hold it down in there for a few minutes. It was only when the dog was removed, dripping with water, that I realised its reward for fighting to near-death for its handler was to be drowned.
The crowd started shouting for more, baying for blood.
‘I don’t think I can watch this,’ I said.
Hod started to get rattled. He placed his hand on my elbow. ‘You don’t think what?’
I saw another vicious pit bull – this one must have weighed fifty pounds – being led from the front of the barn. He struggled and clawed to get to the ring. His handler, a teeny lightweight in head-to-toe Adidas, struggled to hold on to him. He jerked the choke chain, yelled at him. The dog ignored all of it. He was ready to kill. Primed.
In the ring another pit was already waiting, similar size, raring to go. All around us grown men were roaring.
A loud call went up: ‘Release the dogs.’
In a second the two beasts were unleashed; they collided like the bottle I’d just smashed on a tree. The noise of their skulls connecting hurt my ears. They were both thrown in the air, a shower of teeth spraying the crowd.
‘Hod, this is sick.’
‘Dury, get a grip.’
I turned away. At the other end of the barn I saw a flash of white. I thought I’d seen a ghost. Then I saw it again. The shape was more visible this time. I recognised it as a dog. But not a pit bull, or anything like it. It was a white poodle. Somehow the dog had evaded its handlers. My guess, it sensed its fate.
I knew this dog was the intermission – some very light entertainment between bouts. I followed its attempts, running frantically the length and breadth of the barn, looking for an escape; it couldn’t find one. Suddenly it was grabbed by the scruff. Jostled about a bit, yelled at. It turned its little snout away from the lad doing the yelling. I clocked him at once: it was our Corrado driver.
‘I’m sorry, Hod.’
‘What do you mean you’re sorry . . . sorry for what?’
I opened up my Crombie. Felt for the handle of the Mossberg. ‘I’m sorry for this.’ In a second I raised the shooter.
The sound of the gun’s discharge made everyone in the room duck in unison. A few turned skywards as they crouched, expecting to see the roof come down. I cut a path through the crowd, pushed people aside left and right. No one seemed too bothered to stop me.
A voice yelled out, ‘Police, stay where you are!’ It was Hod. Self-preservation or initiative, I didn’t care which – it did the trick. The place emptied with a stampede.
In a few seconds I was on the yob with the poodle. He saw me heading his way and dropped the dog, scampered.
‘Fuck . . . Hod, get that fucking dog!’
I watched Hod lower his arms, call to the dog, but it was all over the place.
‘Get fucking after it!’
The barn emptied in a hurry, people running for the hills. This shit you don’t want to get hoyed in for.
I set off after the yob. He was dressed all in white, trackies and top to match. It made my job easier. ‘I’ll blow yer fucking head off!’ I yelled.
He was fast, through the back of the barn and the path skirting the trees to the clearing. I tried to catch him but my lung capacity had been seriously reduced by years and years of full-on tab usage.
‘Stop, you little prick!’
At the clearing where the cars were parked, I caught sight of him sliding across the front of a bonnet, Dukes of Hazzard style. I raised up the shooter, but he was gone behind another car, ducking and weaving for dear life. ‘Shit, this fucker’s fast.’
Everywhere cars pulled out, screeched tyres. Engines revved all around, was like the starters’ line-up at the Indy 500.
As I got to the first row of cars I heard an engine roar, then coming straight for me, right down the middle of the road: it was the Corrado.
I raised the gun.
I shouted, ‘I’ll fucking use this!’
My warning didn’t register. Driver went straight for me.
I’d no choice, dived out of the way. As the car screamed past, I got to my feet, fired off a round. It put out the back window. Glass exploded all over the dirt track, settled for a second, then was mashed in by the flood of fast-moving cars.
As I stood up I caught sight of a brand-new Audi being driven like it was a Knockhill wrecker. Behind the wheel was a face I recognised, but the one sitting next to it told a whole other story.
Chapter 46
THERE WAS NO sign of the resident plod lurking outside so we washed up back at the Holy Wall. Mac had a pint of Guinness ready and waiting for me on the bar. I knocked the head off it quick smart. Soothed like an old friendship. Felt like medicine.
The white poodle played on the floor with Usual. Hod laughed. ‘Christ, it’s a hard dog that you’ve got, lads – mates with a poodle.’
Mac went off, ‘Get that dog down to the fucking pound. It’s someone’s pet – they’ll be looking for it!’ He pointed Hod to the door, puffed his chest. ‘And get a fucking shave, ye gypo!’
Not biting, Hod moved off. ‘I was only joking. I’m going. I’m gone already.’
Mac walked behind the bar, picked up a bag of KP nuts, raised another bag for me. I declined. As he munched away he let his thoughts escape. ‘Well, that sounded like it was all a complete fucking farce.’
‘How do you gather that?’ I said.
‘They got away.’
‘Ah but . . .’ I got out of my stool, reached over for a bottle of Haig, poured out a wee goldie, downed it.
Mac grew impatient. ‘But what?’
‘We got a direct hit on the car . . . and I caught sight of a very cosy scene that will take some looking into.’
‘What?’
‘Sid the Snake and Jonny Johnstone sharing a motor.’
A head-shake, rapid eye movement, a swallow. ‘I’m gonna stretch that wee cunt’s neck.’
I raised my pint, pointed a finger. ‘Hold that thought.’
I left Mac in the bar, went out to the hallway to make a phone call. My mind was on one thing, and one thing only. In the midst of such an overwhelming crisis, I couldn’t believe I was focusing on this.
By the back door sat a cardboard box. Inside were old pictures of my father in his playing days. By the look of it, old Scottish Division One. I remembered a row with the Wall’s original proprietor, Col, about these very pictures. He’d taken them down so as not to offend me. As I looked at them now, I wished he’d thrown them out altogether. I laid a kick into the side of the box, heard a loud crack from the glass.
‘The fucking last I want to see of you.’
I dialled up Debs’s number.
Ringing.
An answer: ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Debs, it’s—’
‘I know who it is.’
Well, that was something. ‘Are you all right now?’
‘Gus, I’m always all right.’
I knew what she meant: there is all right and there is well – the two aren’t the same thing.
‘I wondered if you were still, y’know . . .’
‘Gus, you don’t need to worry about me.’
‘Debs, c’mon, you were in bits when I saw you. I don’t stop caring just because you’re out of sight. You know that.’
Silence.
The gap on the line stretched out.
‘Debs . . . Debs, you still there?’
I heard her begin to cry down the line. ‘Gus, I’m sorry . . . I just can’t play the hard bitch any more.’
‘You were never that, ever.’
Sobs. ‘I just feel like it’s all getting to me now.’
‘What, Debs, the baby thing?’
‘Gus, it was a fucking abortion – can’t you say the word?’
I could say it; I just didn’t want to. And moreover, I knew she didn’t want to hear it. ‘Stop it, Debs. Just stop torturing yourself.’
‘Why? Have you got the monopoly on that?’
‘No, I—’
‘Gus, why did you call?’
Why did I call? I wondered that myself. Did I want to help her? Was I being selfish? ‘I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I, Gus . . . This is all pointless. You know we’re not going to get back together, don’t you?’
I felt wounded. I had no hopes of us getting back, no real ones anyway. But to hear her say this cut deep. ‘Of course not, Debs . . . I only wanted to . . . Christ, do I need a fucking appointment now to check on you?’
Silence again.
‘Debs. Debs.’
‘I’m going to go now, Gus.’
‘What have I said?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m just going to go.’
‘Debs, just tell me you’re okay.’
I heard her voice start to quiver; her words struggled to get out. Tears, more this time. ‘I told him, Gus.’
So Jonny knew. I wanted to ask how much he knew. ‘You told him everything?’
‘I told him why I can’t have children, Gus.’
Debs’s voice came clouded in sobs. I wanted to be there for her now, put an arm around her, tell her it was all going to be okay. Tell her it was better out in the open. Any old cliché, just to make her feel better.
‘You did the right thing, Debs.’
She yelled down the phone, ‘No, Gus, I didn’t! I never do the right thing. Never. I never do that.’
‘What do you mean, Debs? What do you mean?’
‘I can’t save you this time, Gus . . . I just can’t.’
I didn’t understand. ‘I’m not with you . . .’
‘Gus, I’m not able to . . . I just can’t do it. I don’t know what you expect me to do. Jonny isn’t in my control, you know.’
This was out of left field. ‘Debs, I don’t want you to do anything for me.’ I didn’t want her to put herself in any danger; I’d go down for Moosey’s murder before that happened. I couldn’t believe I’d given her any other impression. ‘Debs, I only want you to be happy. I’m sorry if I—Debs, Debs . . .’
She’d hung up on me.
Chapter 47
SID THE SNAKE’S street was quiet, maybe too quiet. After the raid we’d staged on the pit fight Hod had word that certain folk were none too chuffed. I anticipated another howk from Rab’s pugs but was more concerned with some rasslin’ of my own.
We sat just up from Sid’s gaff and waited. He had to emerge sooner or later and when he did I’d be there. And more worryingly for him, so would Mac the Knife.
‘You look pumped.’
Mac squeezed the steering wheel. ‘That wee prick’s gonna be pumped.’
‘You’re remembering your record, of course.’
A laugh, cut in half, replaced with a smile. ‘I’m playing my record!’
There was some movement down the street; Sid’s door opened. Two skelky yoofs stepped out and slouched themselves into the wind. I couldn’t see their faces hidden behind hoodies. I let them traipse along the pavement. When they passed the van I saw one of them had a bag over his shoulder.
‘What you think’s in there?’ I said.
‘Fuck knows . . . Skag? Could be anything. They’re in with Rab and he’s into it all.’
I thought about going after the yob for a look, but then Sid’s door opened again and I was harshly thrown back in my seat.
As Mac brought the van to a halt there was a screech of tyres. A gust of black smoke lingered in the air as I pulled open the slide door. Sid stood on the pavement wide-eyed, his mouth drooping like a feedbag above his scrawny neck. I reached out and grabbed him by the collar. He was surprisingly light as I threw him into the back. Mac spun the wheels again as the door slammed shut.
I said nothing, let Sid wonder.
I kept eyes on him as he jittered before me, wiping a dribble from the side of his mouth.
He looked like a cornered rat, hunched over and ready to bound away first chance he got. His thin knees poked through his keenly pressed denims like tent poles. In the van there was an atmosphere you couldn’t mistake. Sid was shitting himself. Not literally, but if he was you wouldn’t catch it over the reek of Blue Stratos he was wearing.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he said finally.
I blanked him.
‘C’mon, this is out ay order. I’ve told you all I know before.’
I rubber-eared him again.
He banged on the side of the van, yelled, ‘Hey, let me out!’
He’d pushed his luck. I leaned forward and grabbed Sid by the neck. He squirmed; hands shot up as he tried to speak. His voice came like a croak, but there were no words he could form.
I watched Sid struggle before me, slap my hands pathetically, then I smacked his head off the side of the van.
He slumped, hands clawing at his collar, gasping for air.
Mac shouted to us, ‘What the fuck’s going on back there? . . . If I’ve to stop this van I’ll do the cunt here and now.’
Sid’s feet paddled on the floor of the van as he retreated from me in blind panic.
I said, ‘He’s settled now. If he moves again, I’ll do him myself.’
We drove for an hour.
Mac had obviously done this before; he knew how to stretch out the tension.
None of us spoke, though I swore I saw Sid mouthing the rosary. His complexion had gone from the natural schemie grey to white as a maggot. He sat with his knees folded under his chin and his arms wrapped around his shins. Only occasionally did he look in my direction and if he caught my eye he’d divert his gaze promptly.
I saw through the front windscreen that Mac had driven us out into the country. We were coming off a B road and heading down a dirt track. I saw trees. Don’t ask me what kind – I’m from Leith – but they were lined up along the banks of a little burn. They had thick branches, kind you could get a rope over; more than strong enough to hold a skelf like Sid.
