Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  Adams climbed back in the car and started the wipers before spinning it round and halting right next to Brenda, who was recovering and up on her good arm. He opened the driver’s window. ‘I feel sorry for you, hen. I know somethin’ happened way back then, but you’re a fuckin’ disgrace.’

  He closed the window and headed off to whatever came next. One way or another he wasn’t too bothered, as long as it didn’t involve a visit in the night from Psycho McManus.

  Brenda was hurt but no bones were broken and most of the damage was unseen. Her self-esteem, or what was left of it if it had ever existed, was what had taken the real hit. Getting back to Glasgow was going to be a bastard, but that was the least of her problems now that she’d realised it was time to take care of all the business she’d left unsettled over the years. She began limping off towards the street lights at about the same time as McCartney and Woods managed to steal the car that would get them back to their city and to temporary safety.

  As Brenda headed back towards Edinburgh and transport, a flash of lightning tore across the sky, briefly turning the old hills into black silhouettes and ripping open the heavens to trigger a spectacular two-minute shower. The injured woman hardly noticed either the painful throbbing in her limbs or nature’s great display of power. She trudged through the swirling water and thought about Adams’ words. He’d said she was a disgrace. She wondered what he would think if he knew the truth.

  A few minutes’ drive across the city and not too far away from the scene of the failed robbery, McManus sat in his bedroom watching the downpour and playing some favourite Jerry Lee Lewis tracks on his iPhone. He was high on a mixture of adrenalin, expensive train booze and the whisky he’d ordered for the room. The pished grin plastered across his coupon was down to the thought of what had happened earlier. The Logans would see him as the bollocks, no doubt about it, and with a bit of luck he’d get the job of tracking down the calamity twins to give them a bit of rough justice – and he knew how to do that with bells on.

  There was a knock at the door and, if anything, his grin widened. That was not the reaction of the escort on the landing, though, who had to try to conceal her absolute dismay when he opened the door and she realised what was about to crawl all over her.

  ‘Hi, I’m Angel.’ She tried her best to construct a smile that conveyed warmth and desire, but she shouldn’t have bothered because McManus really didn’t give a fuck.

  ‘An’ I’m fuckin’ gaggin’, darlin’.’ He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her inside.

  18

  Wilma Paterson tried to light a cigarette but her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t hold the smoke still. Her brother, Bobo McCartney, had called her in a complete meltdown. Up to that point everything had been fine and she’d taken the opportunity to down a bottle of B on Psycho’s last night away. She almost wished her brother would blow the bastard away and be done with it. Psycho didn’t like her getting pissed, but the strain of living with him was taking its toll and a wee drink helped unwind the knots in her brain. She’d dumped the infant on her mother for the night then settled down happily chain-smoking and drinking till she was in that delusional state where everything was going to be alright. She imagined a big pay-off for the gear from the robbery and maybe her ticket out of the life she was leading. She’d smoked some Denis Law as well, just to add to the sense of temporary elation, but the mood was short-lived because Bobo had called and he’d been so hyper she could hardly make out what he was saying.

  ‘Calm the fuck down, Pat.’ She never used anyone’s nickname. ‘What’s the problem?’ She had still been parked somewhere near never-never land and it had taken a couple of minutes for the message to sink in and kill the pleasant couple of hours she’d just spent away from reality. When she really got it she’d almost thrown up on the brand-new hall carpet that still hadn’t been hoovered since they’d bought it the month before. Housework was never Paterson’s strong point, and to be fair, her mother hadn’t been much of an example or teacher.

  When McCartney had managed to stop gibbering long enough to give her a rough outline of the debacle in Edinburgh she’d put her hand to her mouth and said ‘fuck’ in a whispered voice straight into her palm.

  ‘What the fuck, Wilma? That mad bastard saw me full on. Fuck’s sake.’ McCartney paused and said ‘Fuck’s sake’ again because he had no idea what else to say or do next. When they’d got back to Glasgow with the stolen wheels Woods had told him to piss off and stay clear of him.

  ‘Wilma?’ He said it because there had been a long silence on the line and he needed direction. She’d managed to light her cigarette now and kept imagining McManus when he was on the piss. That was when he liked to give her a hard time, and if he figured this one out he’d cut her throat.

  ‘I never should’ve got you involved. You’re a fuckin’ eejit.’

  ‘Wilma?’ McCartney said again. It was a question and a plea to come up with an answer he was incapable of forming himself.

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  He told her. She stuck her fags, lighter and what was left of the draw in her coat and two minutes later was pulling the door closed behind her.

  Half an hour later Paterson walked into the boozer just off Buchanan Street, saw McCartney sitting in the farthest corner and was surprised they hadn’t asked him to leave already. She’d been brought up rough but even to her McCartney looked like a fucking junkie trying to control the shakes. He was just coming apart – and with good reason. If McManus worked this one out, the best she could hope for was to leave Glasgow. Even then she wondered where she could go because everything she was and all that remained of her miserable family were in the city. Apart from a couple of piss-ups in Blackpool and some better-forgotten trips to Magaluf, the city was all she knew. Where could she go and survive without ending up on the game? She’d calmed down since her initial panic during the phone call with McCartney, but the sight of her brother twitching like a chimp on speed made her reach for the fag packet before she remembered the no-smoking rules.

  When McCartney saw his sister, he rose halfway off the leather seat in the booth, but he didn’t know what to do or think next so sat down again. He locked his hands together to stop his own version of the shakes and almost looked like he was at prayer.

  Paterson had always been the stronger of the two, which wasn’t too hard a call. The strange thing was that, for all his problems, she cared about McCartney – she knew that all he’d ever wanted was to be somebody and had never been able to accept that just wasn’t going to happen. The sight of him made her think maybe he’d finally reached the point where he would have to admit it to himself as a fact of life. Then again, knowing him as she did that was probably a bit optimistic.

  Paterson went to the bar first and bought a double vodka and Coke. She wasn’t a big spirit drinker but the occasion did call for a real stiffener. She sat opposite him and saw that even by his standards McCartney looked like warmed-up shit. ‘Jesus! What the fuck happened?’ she said. ‘Tell me exactly.’ She slugged back half the drink and felt the warm rush as the alcohol did its thing.

  McCartney’s face looked weary and there were some tracks where tears had streamed through the grime and worked clean patterns down his coupon. ‘It went tits up, sis. Woods fucked it up. Lost his bottle when it counted and we had to leg it, right. No fuckin’ gear.’

  When he’d finished completely distorting the truth he tried to drink the half-empty glass of flat beer sitting in front of him. It was as if his throat had been closed off and he struggled to swallow it down.

  ‘So what’s the problem? Thought you were masked up for the turn.’ She hoped that all they’d lost was the gear, but from what he’d said on the phone something seemed to have gone very badly wrong and she needed to know what this meant for herself, never mind the wreck sitting opposite.

  ‘We took them off when we got back to the car but he was right behind us. He’s a fuckin’ radge.’

  She clos
ed her eyes and sank the rest of her drink. She had to find something in the story that meant it wasn’t as bad as she imagined. ‘He doesn’t know you, Pat. Don’t lose it for fuck’s sake and it’ll pass.’ She knew it just wasn’t that easy, but there was nothing else she could say or think of at the time. She had to keep McCartney on his feet till they worked something out or they were both toast.

  Something flared in McCartney’s eyes and it was a reaction to the futility of what she’d just said. He needed a bit of anger to release the tension that was threatening to pop something in his head.

  ‘Get a fuckin’ grip! Brenda’s been robbin’ everybody for weeks and they’re lookin’ at her as the number-one suspect. They’ll get to us eventually. Have to . . . Jesus Christ, what a fuckin’ mess.’ He shook his head and stared at the table.

  Paterson looked up at the barman and thought about ordering another drink, but he looked like he was getting uncomfortable with McCartney, who had all the appearance of someone about to have a seizure. She walked over to the bar and did her best to look sincere.

  ‘Just lost his ma. He’s okay, honestly. Any chance of a refill?’

  The barman took a moment as he thought about refusing but found a compromise. ‘Okay, honey, but nothing for the boy, right?’

  She smiled again and grabbed the glass as soon as it hit the bar. The first drink had eased her and she pulled back in opposite McCartney. They’d almost no options so she had to try and ride it out for the time being.

  ‘You get the head down and I’ll work somethin’ out.’

  It was almost no plan, but it was all they had and he lifted his head at the slightly positive note in her voice.

  ‘What about you though, Wilma?’ He said it weakly and as if he cared.

  ‘I’ll find out what he’s doin’ an’ see where it goes. He’ll be on the sauce in Edinburgh the night so we’re fine for now.’

  They parted and McCartney went off to his old lady’s place in Easterhouse; for all she was she’d still put him up for a couple of days – and, more importantly, keep her gob shut. His father, or rather the man who’d thought he was his father, had died of lung cancer when his lifetime fifty-a-day habit had finally taken its revenge. McCartney had been easy-oasy about his old man and only felt a bit down for a couple of days before the grieving had worn off. They agreed that McCartney would keep a low profile till Paterson had spoken to McManus and let him know how much damage had been done. It looked like his only option would be to head for London and see if he could make it in the big smoke. McCartney still hadn’t learned, even sitting in the biggest hole he’d ever managed to dig himself into.

  Paterson headed home and, on the way, stopped off for another bottle of B. Normally what she’d had already would have done the business, along with the draw, but the shock of what they were facing had sobered her up and left her with some terrifying possibilities. If there was any chance of sleep she’d need something to help her on the way.

  In the end she went for a nice New Zealand white rather than create the hangover from hell with another bottle of Buckie, and one more stop, this time at her dealer’s, got her enough draw to see her through the night.

  As soon as she got home she called her mother, told her that McCartney was on the way and that she would need to take care of her grandchild for another couple of days or so.

  Her mother didn’t make too much of a fuss, and the aching loneliness of widowhood meant that looking after her grandchild had become a bonus rather than a burden. She wasn’t sure about having McCartney though – there was enough in the tone of Paterson’s voice to tell her there was a problem. She worried about her daughter having a partner like McManus. The girl hadn’t had a lot of luck with men and her previous marriage had been nothing short of a disaster; she’d still retained the name Paterson even though the man was an out and out bastard. Her mother had seen a few like him in her time, and even her late husband had blackened her eyes a few times over the years, although nothing too serious by the standards of her community. That was the life she’d been born into and she’d never made too much of it.

  She looked in on her grandson and wondered what the future would mean for him. Maybe he would break away from his family and do something with the all too short years he’d be given.

  She closed the door to the bedroom and wiped a tear away from her eye.

  Once the bottle of white was arsed the rest of the night went from a dreamy haze to a complete blank for Paterson, which was exactly what she was aiming for. About 3 a.m. she woke up in the chair and shivered from the cold air drifting in through the gap in the window. She’d opened it to let out the fug and drifted into sleep before she could close it again. Her eyes almost refused to open and seemed stuck together with adhesive. It took about five seconds for her body to react to the alcohol, smokes and dope she’d consumed. She tried to get some saliva going to relieve the dry rag that seemed to be inhabiting her mouth, gave up and tottered through to the kitchen for the pint of cold water she needed to cool her parched throat.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ It all came flooding back: the complete fuck-up that had suddenly become her life. McManus would be back later in the day, and the only saving grace was that he’d probably have been on the piss in Edinburgh the previous night. If past performances were anything to go by he’d have a few in Glasgow too, after meeting Frankie Logan. That meant she’d probably have till late afternoon to swallow some aspirin, slap on a thick coat of make-up to hide the truth and hope McManus was pissed enough to talk and say what the score was.

  The water did the trick with her throat and she filled the glass again before heading through to her bed, where she drifted in and out of a half sleep that did nothing to rest her mind or body.

  Paterson finally mustered enough energy to drag herself out of her pit in the middle of the morning, and she tried some toast and jam but it wouldn’t stay down. She felt like shit and making herself look half presentable for McManus was going to be an ordeal. Her hands shook like an old man with Parkinson’s, and the more she shook the more she panicked that he would see right through her lies. He had the instincts of a sewer rat and could smell trouble a mile off.

  McCartney called in the middle of her second black coffee, talking endless shite, which meant he was probably high on something plus stretched to the limit. There was nothing to add to what she’d said to him already in the bar. Eventually she cut him off and told him to stay where he was till she got back to him.

  ‘An’ for fuck’s sake, stay off the bevvy and dope.’

  19

  Frankie Logan sucked hard on the first cigarette he’d put to his lips in a week. It was the end of another failed attempt to give up the evil weed, but the news he’d just had meant he needed something to soothe his nerves. His moderate intake of illegal substances had stopped a long time ago, and he was even canny with the booze now. He was first to admit that he’d been a bit of a mad bastard in his youth, but the day he’d found his younger sister lying dead in a pool of mixed vomit and blood with a needle in the mess was the day he’d given the poisons up for good. He’d adored Jeanette, and she’d been the only female member of the family left after his mother had died in a road accident as a young woman. He barely remembered his mother and so his baby sister became about the one and only person he really loved. He’d been close enough to his old man but they kept a stiff Presbyterian space between each other; physical contact was strictly for the women in their world.

  His father had been an old-school gangster who believed he had principles and claimed he never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. To an outside observer that might have been a claim open to debate, but that’s what old Frankie had firmly believed. The Logans had cleared out of Belfast in the seventies during loyalist in-fighting that ended in Frankie senior accepting that he would get wiped out if he stayed in the Shankill any longer. He’d moved to Glasgow and went to work as a heavy for a local Govan crew who’d supported the loyalist cause over the water.
He made his name as Mr Reliable. You gave Frankie Logan a job, he did it with as little mess as possible. Over the years he’d climbed through the ranks and ended up heading a team of his own who stuck firmly to their own territory and wherever possible avoided conflict with other gangs, because he’d seen what that meant in Belfast. He taught his firstborn, Frankie junior, the right way to do business – to earn respect so that people knew exactly what his word meant.

  ‘There’s enough for us all, son,’ he’d always said, ‘so don’t get greedy. Build the business like a good football team. That means getting a good basic structure in place with players you can trust. But play to win – what’s the point of being in this game to come second best?’ He was a big fan of Sir Alex Ferguson and liked to use and quote his philosophies for success.

  Old Frankie had made sure that his eldest son and the two younger boys, Abe and Alan, were well trained by the time the shock of his daughter’s death, compounding the loss of his wife, became too much to bear. He’d basically given up and drank himself to death. It was a clear choice he’d made, satisfied that his boys could carry on without him.

  Young Frankie took another long, satisfying draw on the cigarette and looked across at McManus, who was lighting up his own smoke after giving them the story about events in Edinburgh. Frankie had asked him to go over it twice to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Some bastard had been hitting various businesses and it was an outrage. Although they seemed to be disappearing down the tubes, the main suspects had to be the McMartins. Frankie always remembered his old man’s words about needing proof before acting, and it sounded like they had got it – or nearly got it. He wanted proof because if the McMartins’ business empire was about to disintegrate then it meant there would be a feeding frenzy over the dying corpse. That was bad for business and Frankie Logan needed it to be done in an orderly fashion. His team were top of the gangster’s premier league and he wanted it to stay that way. Being the one man in Glasgow who had lines open to them all, he’d already made contact with the men who mattered in the other crime families and organisations. It had to be him because everyone else tended to be in a constant state of tension, if not open war.