Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  ‘Right, Bobo.’ She surprised everyone in the car by saying it quietly and without a hint of tension before continuing: ‘Tell us again what the info is so that Goggsy can be clear on the plan.’

  Woods had heard it half a dozen times but being ‘clear’ wasn’t why she was doing it. He knew that much. McCartney was maybe a bit of a halfwit but endlessly enthusiastic and happy to tell it all as many times as they wanted. He loved the sound of his own voice. Woods winced at the thought of hearing his partner in crime running through it all again. He just knew in his bones that the useless twat wasn’t telling the full story.

  ‘Right. My half-sister is gettin’ humped by one of the Logans’ crew.’ McCartney said it with the accompanying smile of a confident man. He was ever confident. ‘Thing is that he’s a radge, right, and she wants away, but he says he’ll fuckin’ top her and the wean. So, she hates the boy, right?’ He paused, waiting for an enthusiastic response from the audience, but there was just stone-cold silence in the car. He told it as if it was the first time.

  Woods screwed up his eyes and said a silent prayer because he was in a car with three people who nobody in their right mind would want to work for in a million years. First there was Brenda, who was a lunatic; enough said. Next to her was Jimmy ‘Fanny’ Adams, a broken-down gangster who was past it and normally did most of the driving. He’d been with the McMartins all his life in crime, and at one time during the glory days he’d been Slab’s wingman. Now he was just the old man Brenda loved to humiliate. Most of his friends called him Jimmy, but Brenda, and those desperate to curry favour with her and look bigger than they were, called him Fanny. Then there was the icing on the horseshit cake: Bobo fucking McCartney, the most useless robber in the West.

  McCartney carried on; he was enjoying the spotlight because he was the one person who just couldn’t work out the risks. He was over the moon that he was able to put red-hot info to Big Brenda that would bring them in a mint, at least in his dreams.

  ‘So she wants to stick it to the bastard. I tell her to keep her ears open and see what comes. The man’s a pish-heid and talks for Scotland. Anyway, right, to cut a long story short, he’s one of the gadgies that’s runnin’ this gear up tonight. There’s two – him and this other numpty, Deeko. It’s a big deal: twelve fuckin’ kilos. They stop in Edinburgh first, go to a hotel in Waterloo Place just up from the station; they drop off three Ks to a local team from The Inch – fuck knows who they are, but anyway. Once that’s done, they kip in the hotel then back to Glasgow in the mornin’ an’ take the rest of the gear back to the Logans. Plan is, right, we go in hard in Waterloo Place, rob the bastards and Bob’s your auntie! Waterloo Place is close to the town centre but dark and quiet at this time of night. It’s pishin’ rain so even better.’ He wanted to carry on but waited for Brenda to speak. She blew a line of smoke towards the back of Woods’ head.

  ‘Sounds like a plan to me, McCartney. Sound like a plan to you, Fanny?’

  Adams grunted something like agreement. The truth was he hated the sight of Brenda but had nowhere else to go for work, and his pension plan had never existed.

  ‘So, Goggsy . . . Tell me – sound like a plan to you? If not then get the fuck out of the car and I’ll see you later.’

  The reason McCartney was behind the wheel and not Adams was that he’d taken on the job of lifting a car and putting a set of number plates on it for the rip-off. That was something else that worried Woods: anything that McCartney touched was a concern and tended to turn into rat shit at some stage of the plan.

  Woods knew exactly what her question meant. She wouldn’t let him survive if he disagreed in case he grassed them up looking for a favour from the opposition. He was caught hard and fast in a place he didn’t want to be, but there was nowhere to go if he was going to survive. He made up his mind in that moment that if he got the chance, he’d rip off gear or money from Brenda and head south to the smoke.

  ‘I’m in, Brenda. Just want to be sure this is right; twelve Ks is a lot of money so a good score and worth the risk.’ He said it, not believing a word; apart from McCartney, neither did anyone else in the car.

  Brenda McMartin didn’t like anyone that much, but she certainly didn’t like Woods. If she actually made up her mind she didn’t like someone, it quickly became apparent they had a serious problem. But she was running out of troops, and almost all of the good men on their team had disappeared or gone over to other outfits. It was a fucking scandal, but she never blamed herself or tried to analyse what had gone wrong. The truth was that Brenda McMartin didn’t seem to give a shit anymore. She wasn’t frightened – she’d just decided to play up to the final whistle and go wherever it went. The robberies were crazy, she knew that, but the business was collapsing and this was the only action she could get. It was that or sit in a dark room till a man with a gun or a knife came for her. She was going to upset as many of the bastards as she could before that time came. They deserved at least that from her.

  ‘Let’s do this then. Bobo: you and Goggsy get ready. Fanny: you take over the wheel – the train should be in anytime now. You definitely know this guy by sight, and he doesn’t know you even though he’s podgerin’ that cow of a sister?’

  ‘Half-sister, Brenda,’ McCartney corrected her, because the man he called their father was hers but definitely not his. His real old man was someone he’d never met and his mother had only known for a couple of hours, including the act of conception. As they sat in the car planning an armed robbery, that man was dying of liver cancer in a Belfast hospice. McCartney and his biological father had never known each other and never would.

  He moved on with a smile. ‘The gadgies won’t know me. Anyway, we’ll have the balaclavas on.’ He was high on his dreams of greatness.

  Woods felt as if his stomach was melting into his colon. By nature, he was Mr Laid Back but he shuddered at the thought that he was about to rob a couple of crooks, partnered by the one and only Bobo McCartney – a walking, talking, absolute calamity on legs. If any of his mates knew they’d laugh out loud and think it was a wind-up. Before he went inside, the McMartins had a team of professionals – okay, some were lunatics running the asylum, but nevertheless they were La Liga, Real Madrid and simply the best. He looked at McCartney, who seemed as happy as a pig in shit, and he heard the contents of his gut gurgle in alarm.

  ‘We’ll eat these fuckers, Goggsy. Take no shit – that’s always been my motto.’ McCartney said it as if they were going to take some kid’s ball away as he checked the rucksack for the umpteenth time to make sure his butcher’s knife and balaclava were there. Woods was carrying the sawn-off in his bag.

  ‘Get out of the car, and try not to fuck it up. I’d do this one myself but a six-foot robber with tits would probably give the game away, if you know what I mean?’ Brenda shook her head, knowing she should have given this one a body swerve, but they were talking big numbers if it came off, which might, just might, put her back on the road to recovery. Her life was shit, though, so why should it change now?

  16

  Woods headed down into the station while McCartney waited near the old Waverley Steps exit on Princes Street in case the couriers were missed in the crowds who poured off the new arrivals. He had a description from McCartney of the radge who lived with his half-sister and apparently it was impossible to miss the guy: six-inch scar running from the left-hand side of his gob and a rock-and-roll haircut complete with full sideburns. According to McCartney, the rock-and-roll theme extended as far as his dress sense and he tended to go for the aviator look. The six-inch scar and don’t-give-a-fuck attitude to dress sense rang alarm bells with Woods – combat scars could mean the guy was a battler. His stomach gurgled in alarm again.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Get a grip, boy.’ He said it out loud, trying to divert his attention enough to steady his nerves, and felt a little moment of panic when two uniformed pigs seemed to give him too much eye contact. He was a mass of nerves. The joys of working the job with McCartney
and having the uniforms giving him evils were too much. He had five minutes before the train arrived and sprinted for the bogs.

  Woods had calmed a bit by the time the train heaved alongside the platform, and he prayed that it wasn’t so busy he might miss the targets. It seemed unlikely if McCartney’s description was anywhere near right, and in any case the halfwit with the eyeball on the Waverley Steps would give him a shout if there was a problem. Brenda and Adams were going to park well away and do the pick-up when the job was done and dusted.

  The queue of passengers waiting inside the carriages started to stream off onto the platform but Woods had a good position on the walkway above the main concourse, which meant that if the couriers took the natural route up the escalator he would get behind them in seconds.

  The crowd started to thin out and his heart started to thump again, although he hoped something had gone wrong and they weren’t on the train after all. McCartney would take any flak going from Big Brenda, and at least he could go home and dream about quietly pissing off down south.

  When he saw the two men with the rucksacks it took only a moment to match the taller of the couriers to McCartney’s description. His heart sank because the fucking idiot who was the other half of the robbery squad had left something out. No doubt about it, the boy had a rock-era fetish and the scar was right where it should be, but what McCartney had decided wasn’t worth mentioning was that Mr Rock and Roll was a big fucker. And there was something else. He had that thing – the hard-man thing – the look that said ‘don’t fuck with me unless you have a death wish’. It might as well have been stamped on his big wide forehead above his big Arnold Schwarzenegger shoulders. Woods froze for a moment while he tried to make up his mind whether to run for it and take the consequences, almost forgetting to send the prepared text to McCartney and Brenda that the targets were on their way up. Any potential getaway scheme he might have was hindered by the fact that he was in Edinburgh and everything he owned was in the room in his old lady’s place. Woods needed money, only had thirty quid in his wallet, knew full well that Brenda might get to his mother’s before he could and that, unfortunately, the old bat who’d given him life would set him up for a bottle of gin and a few cans of Carly.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he spat, deciding that if he got his hands on any of the gear, he’d leg it and take his chances. As soon as he’d done that he’d call the Logans and rat The Bitch out.

  Woods sent the text and got his arse into gear behind the couriers, who looked like they might be a bit pissed, which might prove to be an advantage. If they’d had a few they wouldn’t be aware of a follow. The burst of action got his mind off the negatives. He’d stick the sawn-off right in the rocker’s puss because staring into the wrong end of a shooter took care of the best of them. It would be done in seconds, and he could decide at that point whether or not to leg it as far away from the crazy gang as possible.

  The two couriers seemed more interested in whatever they were discussing and weren’t taking any of the normal precautions Woods would have expected or carried out himself. They’d had a few drinks, no doubt about it, and they were just too casual. Every courier knew you had to be alert when you stepped off a train, because if there was a police operation on the case then the chances were that you’d end up kissing the concourse floor and making a mental note to cancel all holidays for the time being. The station was busy enough, and Woods kept close enough behind them, mixed in with the weary travellers on their way to their hotels or homes. They stepped onto the escalator that had been installed to ease the lung-bursting climb up to Princes Street. Woods had to stay close because although Waterloo Place was quiet compared with Princes Street, there was always the chance that a bunch of Yank or Japanese tourists would walk over the top of them and cause all sorts of mayhem. They had to be close, go in hard, grab the gear and be back with the wheels in under two minutes: that was the only way to rob someone on the street. If there was any snash from the two couriers, Woods would give them a kick in the shins with the steel toecaps he always wore for this type of occasion.

  When they got to the top of the Waverley Steps and turned right past the grand facade of the Balmoral Hotel, he saw McCartney straighten up and fall in behind them but on the outside edge of the pavement. Woods bit his lip because he could see that despite all the talk in the car McCartney was twitching with nerves and so self-aware that he was walking as if he had some neurological disorder.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Bobo, hold it together,’ he said under his breath, sensing once again that the job was doomed; it had to be when McCartney was the prime architect.

  He was parallel to McCartney but on the inside edge of the pavement, as close to the hotel walls as he could get. It was a relief to see that at least the couriers were relaxed, and Woods sucked in deep breaths to steady his breathing for what was to come. His thoughts were clear: quick in and out, take no shit and it’s a nice little earner. If only he could believe it.

  The couriers stopped on the edge of the pavement at the foot of North Bridge, waiting for the lights to change as a stream of traffic drifted past. Woods leaned against the corner of the hotel and pretended to make a call on his phone. He tried not to but looked again at McCartney, who seemed to be bouncing from one foot to the other, and it was clear his nerves were stretched to the limit. He kept rubbing his chin furiously as if something had bitten him.

  The lights changed, and as the couriers walked casually across the junction they burst into laughter, digging each other in the ribs. Woods could hear enough to make out that it was about their performance with a couple of hookers when they’d arrived in London to pick up the gear. When they walked into Waterloo Place the rain started to piss down with force, and Woods made a quick call to Brenda saying nothing more than, ‘We’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Brenda McMartin nodded to Adams, who started up the car and drove the short distance to Waterloo Place, pulling in about fifty yards behind McCartney and Woods, who they could see trailing the couriers. Adams pulled the car round in a U-turn and parked at the junction facing Princes Street, ready for a super quick offski. When the boys had the gear, it would only be a short sprint to the car, and in no time they’d be heading west, away from the couriers. By that time, they should have been heavily traumatised with a good old dose of shock and awe that even George W. Bush would have been proud of.

  Woods saw the targets slow as if to cross the road to the hotel side. They were still pissing themselves. There wasn’t another soul near them and they wouldn’t get a better chance. He nodded to McCartney and they pulled the balaclavas down over their faces and moved in.

  ‘Fuckin’ hold it right there, sunshine.’ He jabbed the working end of the sawn-off into the spine of the shorter man, who looked about half the size and weight of Rock and Roll.

  The couriers now morphed into victims and turned slowly to the problem that had appeared to their rear. The sight of the big fucker close up was dramatic. He was definitely a scary monster and should have had ‘handle with care’ stamped on his forehead.

  ‘You are havin’ a laugh . . . right?’ Rock and Roll shook his head as he said it and there wasn’t a trace of panic or fear in his voice.

  Woods lifted the sawn-off higher, so it was pointed at the shorter man’s head. He wasn’t going to be any problem as he was already shaking like a junkie in rehab. McCartney had pulled out the butcher’s knife and was waving it about in front of the couriers like a kid with a pretend lightsaber. Woods wanted to tell him to calm the fuck down but it would have sent completely the wrong message to the two victims in front of them. It made no difference; Rock and Roll had seen it, digested it and knew that at least half the team trying to rob them was a complete idiot.

  ‘Right, no fuckin’ around: toss the rucksacks on the ground.’ Woods barked the order, but his frayed nerve ends meant there wasn’t quite the conviction and aggression he wanted in the delivery. He waited. The short-arsed courier was already taking his pack off and just wa
nted the fuck out of it. But Rock and Roll didn’t move – he just stared at Woods and McCartney as if he was deciding what was the best way to absolutely ruin their day. He put a bigger than normal hand on his partner’s forearm and stopped him throwing his pack on the ground.

  ‘Hold it there, Deeko.’

  Deeko was the top man Frankie Logan’s nephew. Unfortunately, he was a spineless waste of space, but they were trying to give him the odd job to make him feel wanted and part of things. Carrying a bag alongside a pro like the big man seemed safe enough even for a twat like Deeko.

  ‘I’m no’ happy with this nonsense. When I get paid for a job, the job gets done. Know what I mean?’ Rock and Roll kept staring straight at Woods, who realised the bastard wasn’t even blinking. In that moment he knew his instincts had been on the money. It was bad, all bad and they hadn’t even got to the bad bit yet.

  ‘So, tell me, pal. If we don’t hand over, what happens next? I reckon you’re no killer, my friend, are you?’ The end of the gun was picking up the tremor from Woods’ hands. They all saw it. ‘You’re no’ goin’ to shoot that fuckin’ thing, are you?’ Rock and Roll wasn’t even flustered. That didn’t make any sense, because the Final Destination end of a sawn-off should have had him begging for his mammy.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Psycho, do we need this shit?’ It was obvious that Deeko, for one, was happy to hand over the goods without a battle.

  Psycho. The guy called him Psycho. Woods twitched at the words going around his brain. The big guy was a bear, had facial scars and a handle that was a bit of a clue. In that moment he knew that they were careering towards clusterfuck territory. The choices were that he could either shoot the bastard – and by the look of the man he might survive that then rip his eyes out – or just leg it as far away as possible from the world of radges he seemed to inhabit.