Family

by Owen Mullen

  Sharon dragged her away before she could reply; both of them giggling like kids. The bouncer followed her with his eyes, appraised the lean body under the clothes, imagining her without them. Whatever they were on, he wouldn’t mind trying some.

  Around the corner, out of sight, Norrie dropped the pace to a stroll until he got to the car. The day before, Danny Glass had emailed the floorplans – at short notice: how much had that cost him? Now the team was in position and ready to go. Explaining his idea to Glass over the phone had been easy; his reputation for violence was well known and well earned. He hadn’t hesitated about giving the green light.

  Raindrops exploded on the windscreen like tiny water bombs. By now, the others would be inside. He pictured Lexie and Sharon on the dance floor, men trying to squire them and being casually rebuffed. Humiliated, they’d retreat stone-faced to the bar to drown their embarrassment in alcohol, telling themselves lies to soothe their wounded pride.

  The second time he’d gone over the plan, Glass had asked exactly what he’d need so Norrie didn’t bother to check the boot. It would be there. He pushed the seat back to make more legroom, closed his eyes and settled down. For the next hour there was nothing to do but wait.

  Maybe the rain would be off by then.

  32

  Rollie toyed with the silk headband of his fedora, for the hundredth time giving them his impression of Danny Glass discovering a vanload of strawberries. For him, it never got old and never would. The people in the room knew the score and played along, although it had stopped being funny a while ago. Laughing at the boss’s jokes was an important part of the job, especially if the boss was Albert Anderson’s son and heir.

  Rollie was in fine form. His mobile hadn’t stopped ringing with people keen to talk about the video and how great it was to see Glass exposed as a coward and a clown. They assured him Albert would approve.

  ‘What time is it? I’m in the mood for a party.’

  Jonjo said, ‘Still a bit early. Better wait ’til after twelve, when the serious clubbers arrive.’

  Rollie put a drunken arm round him, ruffled his hair and poured a drink for himself and his new best friend. Jonjo was enjoying his status. Only one thing bothered him – he hadn’t spoken to his uncle George since Rollie had told him about the video. George had looked at him just once in that meeting, and he remembered the contempt on his face.

  Rollie read his mind. ‘Where’s George? Anybody seen George?’

  Charlie Thompson wasn’t a fan of Ritchie. The two didn’t get on. Most of the time Ritchie ignored him and Thompson resented it. ‘Doing his usual “man of mystery” shit. He’ll turn up.’

  Thin-skinned and immature even when it was going his way, Rollie saw Ritchie’s absence as a slight. ‘He should be here. We’ve got things to discuss. Hasn’t been a peep out of the Glass camp. What does that mean?’

  ‘Danny’ll be trying to keep his crew together. Bound to be worried about how long he can hold onto them. At least some will want out.’

  ‘Exactly, he’s weak. We should be capitalising on it.’

  Charlie put the mix in. ‘Forget about Ritchie. We don’t need him. It’s Glass’s birthday. The whole family will be there. We should go over and help him blow his candles out.’

  Jonjo realised they were about to put the advantage the video had given them in jeopardy. Glass’s stock, even among his own men, had to be rock bottom. If Thompson was right, people would start peeling away, one or two might even come over to their side. That would be the time to hit him. What was being suggested was foolish because it was unnecessary, except Rollie was too stupid to see it.

  He said, ‘After his brother’s coming-out party, he’ll be expecting us.’

  Charlie dismissed the objection. ‘No, he won’t. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice and all that.’

  Rollie turned the idea over. ‘I like it. Finish the bastards off, once and for all.’

  ‘Yeah. Go in blasting, only this time make sure we get all of them, including the sister.’

  ‘What would it take?’

  Thompson pointed to the men in the office. ‘We’re all here, ready to go. Say the word and it’s done.’

  This was a mistake. Jonjo took out his mobile. ‘Let me try George again.’

  Rollie Anderson hadn’t forgotten his bitter disappointment at the failure of the raid on the King of Mesopotamia and the revenge he’d waited seven years to savour. He overruled Jonjo. ‘Fuck your uncle. Charlie’s right. We don’t need him.’

  33

  The taxi driver had said the pub was no place for a woman on her own at this time on a Friday night. By the time Mandy realised he was right, she’d ordered a white wine and it was too late to leave.

  She moved to the end of the bar, conscious of the looks she was getting and how she was dressed. What the hell was she doing in this place? Danny Glass had called her a slag and she was proving him right. Her cheeks flushed at the memory – the humiliation still with her. Even Luke standing up to his brother didn’t help.

  Mandy caught her reflection in the mirror behind the optics and was filled with self-loathing. The hair, the make-up, the breasts threatening to tumble out, screamed she was a tart.

  Luke was a good guy who treated her with a respect she didn’t deserve.

  Mandy emptied the glass and ordered a Lemonade Vodka. A voice behind her said, ‘I’ll get that. Good-looking women shouldn’t need to pay for their drinks. Your money’s no good in here.’

  A heavy-built guy smiled and held out his hand. ‘My name’s Keith, what’s yours?’

  ‘Mandy.’

  ‘Do we know each other?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then, I’m pleased to meet you, Mandy.’

  Oliver Stanford sighed into his mobile. In the past he’d often told himself he worked well under pressure – maybe he was getting old. The weariness he was feeling came down the line.

  ‘Tell me something good, Trevor. I could use it.’

  Mills smiled. ‘You’re in luck, governor. Got a guy here ready to swear he saw Rollie Anderson outside the King of Mesopotamia just before it got hit.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  Mills ran his fingers over the bruises on his knuckles.

  ‘Didn’t come up. We didn’t discuss it.’

  ‘Just a public-spirited citizen anxious to do the right thing?’

  ‘Got it in one, sir.’

  Stanford relaxed. ‘Really good work, Trevor. I’ll tell our friend on the other side of the river.’

  But Glass wasn’t answering. His phone went to voicemail. If he was wise, he’d get out of London for a while: let the heat go out of the situation. The DCI left a message, cryptic enough to mean nothing if it was ever produced in court, and hung up.

  I was with Danny, about to go downstairs, when we heard his ‘God Save the Queen’ ringtone. He shrugged it away. ‘Leave it. This is more important.’

  A TV show nobody was watching played soundlessly. The packed pub cheered as if they were welcoming a conquering hero instead of somebody who’d been publicly humiliated. They were eager to clap his back and shake his hand, yet there wouldn’t be a man or woman present who hadn’t seen the video and sniggered. I didn’t blame them. It was pretty funny – so long as it wasn’t happening to you.

  How many actually gave a toss about my brother was easy to judge. Apart from me and maybe a couple of guys who’d been with him for years, probably none.

  Somebody broke into ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and the rest joined in. Danny grinned stupidly, his eyes heavy and unfocused. The crowd lifted him off his feet and set him down, swaying unsteadily, on top of the bar. He unscrewed the top off the bottle he was carrying and put it to his mouth to more cheers. Some of the whisky ran down his chin.

  I gave him points for acting. Danny was drinking cold tea and playing the idiot so scores of witnesses would swear they’d seen him too pissed to attack Rollie Anderson or anybody else.
Creating a cast-iron alibi for himself. He leaned at an impossible angle, for a moment defying gravity, then toppled forward. The crowd caught him and helped him back up, still clutching the bottle of Bell’s. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his free hand yanked his tie loose and he looked suspiciously at the King Pot punters like he’d just noticed them and didn’t much fancy what he was seeing.

  ‘What the fuck are you lot doing in my pub?’

  Everybody laughed and Danny said, ‘Seriously. Who let you in?’

  He smiled a sly smile, basking in the applause, and put a finger to his lips. ‘Shush. Want to propose a toast so shut it. To the Queen!’

  The crowd lapped it up and roared their reply. ‘The Queen!’

  It wasn’t loud enough and he admonished them. ‘That the best you can do? If it is you can just fuck off. Again, and give it some welly. To the Queen!’

  This time he got the response he wanted. ‘That’s more like it.’

  I moved to the door. Danny saw me and tried to drag me into his charade. He pointed an unsteady hand. ‘That good-looking geezer over there, that’s my brother, Luke.’ Heads turned in my direction. ‘He’s the best brother I’ve ever had. Come to think of it, he’s the only brother I’ve ever had. Right now, he’s worried I’ll fall off this fucking bar. But I won’t. Get up here and say something. C’mon.’

  There was only room for one actor in the family and it wasn’t me. I shook my head and stayed where I was. A shout of ‘Give us a speech!’ distracted him and he let it go. Suddenly, his expression crumpled as if he was going to cry. He took another pull from the bottle, longer this time. When it was empty it dropped from his fingers and rolled along the counter.

  Danny seemed confused, repeating what he’d already said. ‘Speech. No speech. Give you a toast. To the Queen!’ He tried to salute and didn’t get there. His legs gave out and he collapsed. On cue, I went towards him with Marcus behind me. Together we carried him unconscious through the cheering crowd. When we got to the office, he opened his eyes and winked.

  ‘Convincing, wasn’t I?’

  ‘The Oscar’s in the post.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Tell Harry to give them the free drink they came for and get rid of the bastards. And for Christ’s sake get me a real whisky. It’s my birthday, in case you haven’t heard.’

  A procession of men tried their luck with Sharon and Lexie and came up dry. Fergie stood at the bar with an almost untouched soda water and lime in front of him, making an effort not to look at the faces around him – the guys with their corny chat-up lines, the girls in their glitter, determined to impress somebody, even if it was only each other. A couple danced hip-hop, caught in the changing lights like frames from a silent movie. He felt sorry for them.

  This was their last day on earth.

  Fergie checked his watch, wondering why the hands hadn’t moved. Lexie saw him from the dance floor through a break in the crowd and waved. He ignored her. The song finished. Immediately another started. Lexie and Sharon were beside him, bags over their shoulders.

  Lexie said, ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Too soon. I’ll tell you when.’

  Sharon said, ‘Where do you think Norrie is now?’

  Fergie heard the anxiety in her question and was pleased. He shared Norrie’s opinion that over-confidence wasn’t good. ‘Still in the car. He won’t move until the last moment.’

  Sharon faced the crowd, voicing what Fergie had been thinking. ‘If only they knew.’

  Lexie teased her. ‘Having second thoughts, are we?’

  ‘No, it’s just—’

  ‘Don’t. It’s not worth it. Imagine yourself in the shops in Buchanan Street with money to burn.’

  The phraseology was an ill-chosen reminder. Coming down south they’d been giggling idiots noising Norrie up. As the time for them to act edged closer and the enormity of what they were about to do hit home, it had become real.

  Fergie grabbed Sharon’s arm and pulled her aside.

  ‘Get a grip of yourself, you hear?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t… I can’t help it.’

  ‘You’d better help it or Norrie will put a bullet in your skull. And I won’t stop him. Where did the fuck-everybody stuff go? Get it back. Pronto. I’m not kidding. He’ll kill you in a heartbeat for the fun of watching you die.’

  Fergie didn’t add he might do that anyway. He let go of her and ordered a large gin.

  ‘Drink this.’

  ‘Don’t like gin.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what you like, it’ll calm you down. Drink it.’

  Lexie brought a packet of cigarettes from her bag. She had no intention of joining the conversation. It wasn’t her trip. Except Sharon’s reaction was noted and, if she froze at the last minute, Norrie wouldn’t get a chance to put her out of her misery. She’d do it herself.

  34

  Rollie put the fedora on his head, adjusting it to what he imagined was a cool angle. The drugs were working. With a drink in one hand and a joint in the other, he felt powerful. More than powerful – invincible. ‘Okay. Get the troops together and bring them here.’

  Jonjo tried his uncle George’s mobile again, praying he’d answer. Charlie Thompson hid his satisfaction at how easily Anderson could be manipulated. All it had taken was flattery and a gentle push. Letting him think everything was his idea put him over the edge. Without Ritchie to veto it, he’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Rollie was giving the go-ahead for an assault on the King of Mesopotamia based on nothing more than his inflated sense of himself. No information. No recce. Completely unplanned. Charlie could hardly believe it.

  Jonjo tried to dissuade him. ‘This is a bad idea, Charlie. We haven’t thought it through. We’ve no idea what’s out there.’

  Charlie shrugged his objections aside. ‘What’s to think about? Glass’s on the ropes. Chances are his own men won’t fight for him now they’ve seen what a bloody fool he is.’

  Rollie said, ‘All I want are the brothers. Everybody else gets a pass.’

  Charlie tossed a quiet insult at Jonjo. ‘You’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame. Stick to what you know and let other people get on with doing what you can’t do.’

  Jonjo’s promotion to Rollie’s pal on the strength of the video ebbed away. There was barely controlled panic in his voice. ‘George wouldn’t do it this way. I know he wouldn’t. It’s a mistake. A big mistake.’

  Rollie snapped. ‘Hold it. Five minutes in the door and already you’re some kind of authority. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  ‘Nobody, but this isn’t the right move. I can feel it.’

  Rollie didn’t want to listen to any more. ‘Tell you what. Tomorrow, get the first train to Newcastle and don’t come back. This is my crew. I decide what goes, not your fucking uncle.’

  ‘But it’s reckless. He’s still Danny Glass. It could end up a disaster. He’s having a party, okay. How many troops does he have? What’s the security like? We aren’t prepared. It could go really wrong on us.’

  Rollie wouldn’t be quizzed.

  ‘Shut it. Just shut it!’

  He put his hand in his pocket, peeled off a twenty-pound note and threw it at Jonjo.

  ‘Enjoy your last night in the club, northern boy. Don’t let me see you around here again.’

  Norrie took his feet off the dashboard and checked his watch. Time to go time. He turned the key in the ignition and felt the car come to life beneath him. Putting the plan together had required knowledge of the outside of the Picasso Club as well as the inside. Even at short notice, money – in this case Glass’s money – got you information about anything.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself: this part needed luck. What Glass wanted was grotesque but they were too far in to get out. If he enjoyed living, and he did, he’d deliver exactly what Danny Glass was demanding.

  The Glasgow gangster drove until he was yards from where he needed to be and stopped in front of a row of terraced houses, behind a blue
Mondeo. The red neon sign of an artist’s palette blinked above a lone man on duty at the door. Norrie wondered if he’d got his leg over recently. If he hadn’t, he’d left it too late.

  The queue wasn’t there now and the music seeping through the wall sounded no different and no better than before. Norrie got out and opened the boot. As expected, it was all there. From a pub on the corner a piano tinkled out of tune under the pounding it was getting from a tone-deaf gorilla wearing boxing gloves. Voices and snatches of a song from another era reached him. In a strange way the prosaic nature of it calmed the last of his nerves. He gripped the two petrol cans, feeling their weight, and set them down on the road.

  This wasn’t it all, there was more. Once the cans were where they needed to be, he’d come back. Rain picked that moment to start falling, driven by a wind that had sprung from nowhere. Norrie cursed. His reaction was premature. At the door of the Picasso the bouncer raised his eyes to the sky and moved inside. If Norrie kept to the shadows, he wouldn’t be seen. He bent against the downpour and walked to the lane shoehorned between the wall of the club and a metal fence, twisted and torn and almost falling down. The unmistakeable smell of cat piss filled his nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. The tight space was made tighter by crates piled high on one side and a bottle bank on the other. Fragments of broken glass that hadn’t made it to the bins snapped beneath his feet and were lost in the noise coming from inside.

  Norrie left the cans at the back door and returned to the car. As he opened the boot, an old couple came out of the pub and staggered away in the other direction. He took a moment to watch, pitying them. If there came a time when a Friday night sing-song down the local was the highlight of the week, it would be time to put the bullet he’d spoken about so often in his own head.

  Then again, maybe he was being harsh. Were the morons damaging their septums and Christ knew what else with cocaine in the shithole on the other side of the wall really any better? At Glasgow Central Station he’d been angry with the women. They’d been high. For years he’d sold the stuff and recognised the signs. Inside the club there would be a guy at the bar, smoking a cigarette, making one drink last hours. His job was to take the money. Somebody else would be hanging around the toilets, dishing the drugs to the needy.