Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  The sheer nerve of the man he now knew as Psycho was too much for McCartney. His own nerves were stretched too far and too tight; they snapped and he made a terrible mistake. Wound up to screaming point, he needed an energy release and the only thing he could think of doing was waggling the butcher’s knife in front of the man’s coupon. Deeko had given in at the first sign of danger, and as far as McCartney was concerned Woods was acting the fucking pussy. He decided they needed to add some Tarantino-style aggression to the robbery and it was time to escalate the threat level.

  ‘Get the fuckin’ bag on the deck now!’ McCartney almost screamed it – it was loud enough to wake up the residents of Calton cemetery just behind them. He was out of control, and Woods winced at the sight of his partner dancing around like Muhammad Ali in his prime. The problem was that Psycho still didn’t seem impressed, and apart from putting a steadying hand on Deeko’s forearm had hardly moved a muscle. Woods could have put money on that being only temporary. The question was, would he crack and hand over the goods or do something else?

  Psycho opted for doing something else. He was quick for a big man who’d had a bevvy. McCartney was far too close and, like the liability he’d proved himself to be in the past, managed to get himself between the targets and Woods’ sawn-off. Psycho was a born fighter: big, hard and one of those rare creatures who just didn’t frighten. When it was time to get physical neither emotion nor nerves ever got in the way. He just picked the spot he was going to hurt and went for it with two hundred and thirty pounds of good old Glaswegian aggression. He swung his leg upwards with all the power he could muster and drove the toe of his shoe into McCartney’s groin. Luckily for the boy’s goolies he was a few inches off and the force of the blow was delivered to the inside leg, but there was just enough contact with McCartney’s favourite part to drive the air out of his lungs. Woods heard the whoosh of escaping breath and watched as McCartney almost lifted off the deck and fell to his knees beside him. Psycho grinned in triumph and it just added to the package of shit Woods had been handed by Big Brenda. They were trying to rob a fucking radge and unless Woods shot him they’d probably die. He grabbed McCartney by the arm and dragged him back a couple of paces, keeping the sawn-off pointed somewhere between the two couriers.

  ‘Like that, fucko?’ Psycho – real name Stuart McManus – was enjoying himself and it had rubbed off on Deeko, who’d rediscovered his balls and realised they might just come out of this covered in glory. McManus was mad but definitely not stupid. Still facing the wrong end of the gun, he knew full well that rushing the man just might cause a nervous reaction and discharge in his general direction. He was pretty sure the boy wasn’t going to squeeze the trigger so he would just keep enough pressure on them to make sure they backed off and the gear stayed with the men who’d paid for it. McManus had a reputation to keep up and he was fucked if he was going to lose it to a couple of comedy robbers.

  ‘If I was you, pal, I’d get that boy some ice for his knackers.’ To prove he was cool and rock and roll, McManus pulled out his Lucky Strike cigarettes and lit one up. He loved the emblematic American smoke and blew a couple of rings into the damp air as if he was trying to impress a couple of children.

  Woods had pulled McCartney up on his feet and started to back up another few paces. Deeko sniggered as if he’d driven them off on his own and was really starting to enjoy the show. McCartney was still gasping, although the initial pain from the assault on his jewels had eased. If McManus had been sober and hit the spot correctly, he would have been at least a hospital job and highly unlikely to father wee McCartneys. Woods kept one eye on the enemy and shoved his mouth close to McCartney’s ear. ‘Get fuckin’ ready to leg it. Do it or I’ll leave you with these fuckin’ radges. Hear me?’

  They turned and started to jog as fast as McCartney could manage towards the waiting car about a hundred yards away. Woods tore off the balaclava, not wanting any concerned citizens reporting that a couple of ISIS jihadists were on the loose in the capital – that would have brought down heavy teams from all over the Central Belt. He said the word ‘fuck’ over and over again.

  McCartney’s fear had given him some new energy and he pounded the road unsteadily alongside Woods, wincing with the pain in his groin and yet another terrible blow to his ego. He pulled off his balaclava and wiped the dribble from his mouth. Woods was trotting just ahead of McCartney when some deep survival instinct told him to check one hundred and eighty degrees. Looking over his shoulder as he ran he could see that their troubles were far from over, and he nearly fell on his face with the added shock to his system: Psycho was jogging about thirty yards behind them. He was a smart bastard even if he did look like a relic from the fifties, carefully maintaining a safe distance out of range in case Woods decided to go for the glory shot.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell! Move it, he’s still behind us.’

  McCartney didn’t need to look. They both started to sprint.

  ‘I see you.’ McManus was laughing as if it was some quality joke. Deeko was just behind him so he could take a leading role when he told the story.

  Adams had been standing outside with a smoke, so he saw them running and what was behind them. He was a veteran gangster, well past his sell-by date, but he’d seen his share of fuck-ups and was smart enough to jump in the car and gun the engine, ready for a quick exit. McCartney and Woods got to the car heaving in lungfuls of the wet Edinburgh air and both made a bad mistake – they looked round, heedless of the fact that Adams had parked in a well-lit part of the street. McManus got all the look at their faces he needed for future reference. He’d stopped a safe distance from the sawn-off, and although Woods pointed it at him again, it made no difference to a man who’d already proved he wasn’t easily impressed.

  ‘I’ll be seein’ you boys. Two or three days max.’ McManus pulled out another Lucky and flipped it into his mouth.

  ‘Get in the fuckin’ car!’ Brenda screamed from behind the privacy glass. McManus heard enough to know the voice was female and knew exactly what that meant. He was about to become the star witness in the case against Big Brenda McMartin.

  In the moment McCartney and Woods had locked eyes with McManus they’d realised that it was as bad as it could be. He’d clocked them, and it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to track them down.

  The sound of Big Brenda screaming abuse brought them back to earth with an almighty hard landing. They threw their rucksacks in the back and each still had a leg dangling out of a rear door when Adams put his foot to the floor and threw the car forward, away from what were supposed to be the victims. Adams shook his head just enough to satisfy his instincts but not enough for The Bitch to notice. He’d seen the whole McMartin operation slide down the swanny over the previous months, and if he’d needed proof that it was all over then the attempted robbery sealed the deal. It was goodnight Vienna, and they were risking their necks letting halfwits like McCartney go on the front line. He thought Woods was a decent spud, but he wasn’t really hard; there was no killer in the boy, and in Adams’ day Woods would have been running errands and making tea for the men who mattered.

  He wheeled the car hard left at what was almost a red light and burned some rubber heading up the Bridges to get as far away as possible from what had just happened – or not happened, according to the original plan.

  ‘Slow the fuck down, Fanny, or we’ll have the highway patrol behind us.’ Brenda turned and stared at Woods and McCartney, who were trying to control their breathing and come to terms with the shambles in Waterloo Place. ‘What the fuck happened out there? It’d better make sense or I’ll bury you before we get back to the city.’

  Woods tried to work out what to say, knowing that it probably wouldn’t make any difference; in fact, it might be simpler to stick the sawn-off in his gob and take the quick way out. If that big fucker Psycho tracked him down (and he would), then he might possibly survive – but the minimum injury he could expect from a man like him meant he’d be damaged for life. T
hat was a pointless train of thought and he knew it. They’d knowingly tried to rip off the Logan family. No grey area there as the street law was clear on that one: torture then a painful exit card.

  He looked round at McCartney, who was hyperventilating and seemed to be having something like a seizure. Woods was in extreme danger after what had happened, but there was an immediate threat sitting in the front seat just looking for an excuse to do him on the way back to Glasgow. It was every man for himself. He tried his best to keep hold of the tremors ticking the muscles in his face and jabbed his thumb towards McCartney, whose eyes were bulging unnaturally. The boy’s standard-issue pale complexion had been further drained of colour, leaving only the odd red splash to highlight the location of his facial plouks.

  ‘Well, this daft bastard forgot to mention somethin’ that might have been handy to know before we moved in. The big man is called Psycho.’ Woods shrugged. ‘I mean: Psycho. It’s a fuckin’ clue, Brenda. Know what I mean? He looks like a rock ’n’ roll legend and he’s built like a wardrobe. Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘Oh, I got a look at him alright. Never met the man but the description’s enough for me. There’s only one model fits the bill, and it’s news to me that he works for that bastard Logan. Psycho McManus, that’s who that was. Fuckin’ mental, complete bad news and now he’s right on our case. Brilliant work boys!’ She of course forgot that Woods had questioned the job; someone like Brenda never liked taking the blame, especially when there were twats around.

  On another day Woods might have smiled at Big Brenda describing someone else as bad news. If she paid that compliment to another gangster then they were in big trouble. When he heard it, the bells started to ring and he remembered a story he’d heard going around about some mad fucker from the Govan area that matched McManus’s description perfectly. There just couldn’t be two like that. If it really turned out the bastard was a criminal legend and they’d just tried to stick him up . . . well, he’d had better news in his time. Woods felt all the energy drain from him as if there was a leak somewhere in his system. He wanted to stick the nut on McCartney, but he guessed whatever Big Brenda would do would be a bigger problem for the boy. The mood she was in he knew she might just waste the two of them, because the chances were they’d all be tracked down. Frankie Logan had been just waiting for an excuse to finish off the McMartins and now it had been presented to him free of charge.

  17

  They were just passing the Braid Hills on the way out of the city and would be on the bypass in minutes. Brenda reached over and grabbed McCartney by the shirt front, pulled him close in, almost over the back of the seat. He started to sob and moan at the same time.

  ‘Take the next left, Fanny. There’s a car park below those hills.’ They all knew what that meant: McCartney wasn’t going back to Glasgow. Woods wondered if the same rule applied to him.

  They pulled into the dark area under the Braids, whose rocky outcrops formed part of the seven hills that had been moulded by volcanic and glacial activity and had watched over the old city since its earliest days. Brenda kept a grip on McCartney, staring into the terrified boy’s eyes, watching the fear almost pop the veins in his neck. Adams was manoeuvring for a spot in the darkest corner when McCartney failed to suppress an involuntary act that saved his skin for the time being. He couldn’t hold it in and heaved all over Big Brenda, who cursed like a trooper but let go.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Adams almost retched himself with the stench in the car. He banged on the brakes and forgot that Brenda had taken off her seat belt to grab McCartney. She lurched back and cracked the base of her skull on the dashboard.

  If she was pissed before she was fucking raging now. All the doors flew open at the same time and she staggered about in the darkness of the car park, trying to wipe away the warm puke that had been in McCartney’s gut just a minute before. It was on her face, arms and front. She thrashed about and cursed till the heavy rain helped free her from the stink. When she felt she’d cleared herself as much as she could for the time being, she looked round and growled into the darkness.

  Adams was gagging near the car, trying to get the smell of the poisonous vapour out of his nose, but Woods and McCartney were gone; they’d fucked off and legged it into the trees.

  Brenda McMartin was a violent, treacherous nutjob, but she knew she was going to be lucky to find them in the dark. Luck wasn’t something she was carrying about in a bag at that time, though, and she knew the odds were against her. She screamed towards the dramatic outlines of the Braids, which were unmoved by a mere human’s little difficulties.

  She turned to Adams, who was now lighting up a cigarette in response to the reek that had pervaded the car.

  He leaned on the roof and stared at the woman whose eyes had never shown a glint of respect in the years since Slab had ended up on his back and unable to work the front end anymore. He truly hated her, and all that had kept him on the team was that he was fucked for a bit of work without her. He was too old and too well connected with Slab’s past to get a favour from any of the other gangsters who were worth working for. He’d been with Slab when they’d put a lot of men and a couple of women in hospital or the ground. Adams had been like most young tearaways in his day and thought the money and jobs would keep coming. He’d been a guy people respected and feared in the day, and now he was reduced to driving a mad woman and a couple of robbers who could have been a hit as a comedy double act.

  Big Brenda pulled out the hunting knife she was carrying under her jacket and was on the verge of saying something to Adams when she saw the look – it hadn’t been there for a long time, but she knew what it meant. What she had to say could wait till later. She’d had about enough of the old bastard; every time she looked at him he reminded her of what the McMartins had once been and how without Slab at the helm they were a lost cause. There were scores to settle, but she wanted to take care of McCartney and Woods first. Chances were that they were breaking the sound barrier in the other direction, but she had to give it a go.

  As she disappeared into the darkness, Adams climbed back into the car and wiped the rain from his eyes. The whiff of McCartney’s accident had reduced (luckily most of it had been deposited on Big Brenda), although some had spilled onto the back seat. He pulled out a box of tissues and wet wipes from the glove compartment and cleaned the seat down till it was more or less free of McCartney’s last meal, which seemed to have included chips. He shivered, in part from the chilled damp air but more with the final acceptance that his glory days were over. If he was lucky he might walk away from the calamity they’d been involved in that night. He had a widowed sister in Fife who still cared about her errant wee brother and would welcome him into her home, where he thought he might at least get some peace. The world that he’d once lapped up was now full of monsters who didn’t understand the old rules.

  He started the engine, put the heaters on then lit up another smoke, trying to work out what he would say when Brenda reappeared. In the same way he was always Fanny Adams to her, she would always be The Bitch to him. He hoped to God she didn’t find Woods or McCartney: they were losers but just kids in the wrong game at the wrong time who didn’t deserve what she’d do to them.

  Adams didn’t have too long to wait for her to reappear from the dark shadows under the ancient hills. He knew by her expression that she hadn’t found them and he almost smiled. She would be seriously pissed and about to take the whole fucking mess out on him – that’s what she always did, and for too long that’s what he’d been around for – but he was ready this time. He decided that particular problem was over; he was Jimmy fucking Adams and had been breaking legs and arms when she was still on her mother’s pap.

  ‘Is there any fresh gear in the boot?’ She stooped down and glared at Adams through the open passenger door. ‘I need to get this stuff off me, it’s fuckin’ howlin’ an’ right through. I’ll skin that wee bastard Bobo when he turns up.’

  Adams noted that the
big fuck-off knife with its serrated edge was still in her hand, which confirmed what he already knew: the venom she wanted to use on the two escaped robbers was about to come his way. He’d worked all that out before she ran into the darkness and had taken out the insurance policy that he was now clutching in his own right hand where she couldn’t see it. The tyre wrench felt almost comforting given that he knew a homicidal maniac with a giant blade was coming his way. He still remembered how to take part in a bit of action, but Brenda was so used to taking the piss out of her old man’s one-time right hand that she’d forgotten that and taken none of her usual precautions.

  While she stomped round the passenger side to the boot, Adams unlocked it from under the dash and slid out of the car to join her. He wasn’t going to be a sitting duck. Each intended to malky the other, but while Adams knew what she was up to, Brenda thought he would just stand there and let it happen.

  Having the element of surprise, he let fly at her right arm with the wrench. It did the trick: she groaned and the hot currents of pain shooting from the site of the blow made her drop the knife. Knowing from experience that you had to follow up the first blow to ensure the job was finished, Adams kicked her flush on the knee with the toe of his boot. This invariably hurt like a bastard and sucked the strength out of the recipient for the moments required to do whatever came next. He didn’t need a murder squad on his back so he wasn’t going to kill her – someone else would do that as sure as God made little green apples.

  She toppled onto her side, cursing and trying to cope with twin pains as she watched Adams calmly lift the boot lid and pull out the bag containing a change of clothes they always carried. He dropped it on the ground next to her. ‘I’m off, Brenda. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure but that would be an exaggeration. In another time you’d probably look for me and find me, and we know what comes next. Waste of time now. There’s men comin’ for you, girl, an’ I reckon you’re done, but guess you know that already.’