McManus drank two more shots of whisky then flopped back into bed and told Paterson to wake him at 7 a.m. ‘Do not sleep in or we’re both in the shite. You hear me?’
‘I hear you. You got a job on?’
McManus looked at her sideways, and if he’d been anywhere near sober he would have seen the small twitches round her eyes and mouth. The fresh whisky was having an effect and his vision was blurring again. On the plus side, it had shaken off the painful rhythmic banging in his cranium.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but tiredness was overwhelming him again and he just wanted to sleep. ‘They’ve found one of the McMartins’ boys. I’ll be working on him in the mornin’ and need to be up bright an’ early, doll.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, lay back on the bed and was out for the count again before she left the room.
Paterson’s gut was squirming because she was pretty certain Woods was the name of the person McCartney had mentioned as being with him on the failed Edinburgh job and, what was far worse, that it was him who knew she was the source of the information for that job. If it was him and he talked (and he would), they would have her relationship to McCartney sooner rather than later. The Logans would come for her eventually, and even though she probably wouldn’t be their top priority, she would be McManus’s. The fact that he’d been set up by his woman would do his head in, and the Logans would want payback for him compromising a big job, no matter that he’d ended up saving the day. His reputation wouldn’t be worth a glove full of shit in the city and he’d have to kill her – there’d be no other way. Some gangsters would balk at killing their woman and would settle for a tanking, but not McManus. She lit up another smoke and ran down the stairs to the street to call McCartney.
26
Paterson chain-smoked and kept calling her brother, who didn’t answer at first. She knew he’d be watching another horror film or be doped up, or more likely both.
‘Yer a fuckin’ fanny, Pat,’ she said twice into the phone as she paced up and down the damp street, even though her brother wasn’t on the other end. She fought the urge to throw the phone against a wall to help ease her anger and fear. He was a waste of space, and she promised never to go near him again if they managed to survive the next couple of days.
Paterson had been overdosing on coffee and nicotine, which combined with the stress of knowing that she might end up a murder victim made her hands shake uncontrollably. What made it worse was that she knew McCartney just wouldn’t grasp it. For some reason she’d never understood he just never seemed to read the signs of impending danger. The other thing that always worried her was that you could never really predict where his search for the meaning of life would take him next.
The phone call they were about to have would prove that assessment correct beyond all reasonable doubt. When he finally answered, she could hear Sigourney Weaver battling an alien in the background. ‘Pat, where in the name of fuck have you been? Do you have any idea how much shit we’re in?’
Any normal person would have wanted to know what the problem was, given who was likely to be involved, but not him – he changed the subject completely and his sister wanted to throw up at the change of direction.
After spending one night at his mother’s, he thought it might be an idea to go somewhere less obvious and moved into the spare bedroom of a friend, Wee Peem Waddell, who he’d met in the Big Hoose. Wee Peem, as everyone knew him (physically he was weak and lightweight) was one of life’s real losers, even compared to McCartney. He had only been in Bar-L because the system had nowhere else to put him, a petty criminal who got caught for everything he did because he was – as his grandmother always told people – ‘a bit short in the brain-cell department’. He was so short of those important cells that he was actually impressed by McCartney and believed he’d become buddies with a big-time operator. Waddell had tried but failed every attempt as a shoplifter, and in more politically correct circles he would have been described as having learning difficulties. But his world was not politically correct so they just called him a bawbag. He couldn’t hold down a job, and had neither the looks nor charm to pull a woman, so he lived his life through his fantasies. He’d watch endless films about square-jawed men who were invincible and killed with ease. He imagined and he dreamed (although nothing original), but that was all he could do. The thing he liked about McCartney was that he never took the piss, and it meant something when a class operator treated him like an equal. He would have done anything for McCartney and now did all he could for this friend who’d been the only person to have anything to do with him in Bar-L.
For McCartney it was a good deal because he could make up any old shite and the boy believed every word. They also shared a love of films, particularly ones where serial killers or creatures from another world were trying to destroy the human race. Since he’d arrived, McCartney had stayed behind the drawn curtains and consumed enough Carly to float an aircraft carrier, which he’d paired with any kind of dope Waddell could lay his hands on. McCartney told him he was preparing for a big job that meant he had to lie low till it was time to move; the boy loved it and would have given McCartney his last.
McCartney had run a hundred options and worries through his fevered mind and knew that his career in crime, at least in Glasgow, was over. He thought of endless mad ideas to make a new life and at one point was so fucked up on dope that he believed he’d just come up with an idea that would make him a millionaire: a mobile-phone ringtone with Jimmy Savile doing that strange undulating noise in his throat. He ran it past Waddell, whose face went blank for a few moments before he said, ‘That’s a shite idea.’
This assessment from someone with such limited intellectual capacity made McCartney sit back, blink, sober up and groan at the realisation that everything he touched or came up with was keech. After that he was filled by a wretched fear that he’d never be able to work out a plan for the future, and all he could imagine was Big Brenda or McManus putting him in the ground.
While his friend was out scavenging some weed to see him through the coming evening, McCartney paced around the flat, trying to unwind the knots cramping his muscles, and started to open drawers for no reason other than that he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. That’s when he opened the drawer in an old hall table and lifted the worn Bible out into the first light it had seen in years. A gaping hole in the curtains allowed sunlight to stream across the room and hit a spot on the wall just above the table. McCartney stared at the book as the sunbeam hit the cover fully. For McCartney it was one of those moments when the bells went off in his head and he believed that he’d been sent a message from above. He sank to his knees, and as he pored over the book, the stories and parts of stories he’d been told as a child took on new meaning for him. McCartney had seen the word of the Lord and it was good.
‘Honestly, sis, I think I’ve found the answer at last. I’ve been reading the Good Book, right, and feel like I’ve been born again. I think I’ll go and see a priest.’
‘Born again? So does that include bein’ up to the tits on dope? Get a fuckin’ grip! God won’t stop Stuart kickin’ your brains out through your ears. We need to do somethin’ before he finds out.’ She lit the last smoke in the packet. ‘By the way, when you go to confession remember to confess to bein’ a fuckin’ eejit! They’ve already got this Goggsy guy, or they’re about to lift him, but either way Stuart’s going to be workin’ on him in the mornin’.’
McCartney’s eyes widened. The dogs were coming for them, and his instinct was to run for cover. He knew he should have been out of the city, but he was boracic and as always had been burying his head in the sand. ‘What should we do then?’
‘Well first of all, if you have this guy’s phone number get him to get the fuck out of wherever he is if they haven’t got him yet.’
‘Then what?’ McCartney felt cold, was coming off the dope and, despite his new-found faith, wished his friend would come back so they could do a bit of weed jus
t to take the edge off. He’d promised himself that he’d kick the dope later as part of his rebirth into the community of the church.
‘Then what?’ Paterson repeated it, barely suppressing the anger in her voice at the mess she was in. ‘Then what is what I told you already. We need to put that fuck that I live with to sleep . . . forever. Right?’
McCartney gulped several times, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down as if there was a small animal trying to escape from his throat. ‘I can’t do that, Wilma. Life is precious. “Thou shall not kill.” I want to leave all that life behind me.’ The truth was that McCartney had lost his bottle completely and finally accepted that there was no place in the underworld for him after his catalogue of failed criminal ventures. The thought that Big Brenda or McManus could come out of the shadows at any moment was simply more than he could cope with, and finding religion was a crutch to justify whatever his life might be. The problem was that they’d kill him at the altar and use a brass cross to do it, because his church didn’t mean a thing to them. There was only one way out for McCartney – a thin blue lifeline. ‘I’m goin’ to the polis in the mornin’,’ he told her. He definitely needed to do the weed first before he became fully reborn.
‘You’re fuckin’ what?’ Paterson splattered saliva all over her mobile. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
McCartney’s attention was diverted by the return of Waddell with enough weed to send him to heaven and back, which would take care of his last night as a criminal. Paterson had no idea where he was so she continued to rage at him, knowing he wasn’t for moving and that she was on her own.
When he spoke again, McCartney was calm. ‘I’ll phone Goggsy though and warn him, right? It’s the least I can do.’
Paterson screamed down the phone once more but McCartney had already clicked the off button. He hand-signalled his friend to roll a couple of joints and tapped in Woods’ number.
27
Woods was as happy as the proverbial pig – meeting Kerr had been a real bonus and had taken his mind off what had been a fucked-up week. He was so cheerfully pissed that even though he heard his phone bark like a dog he ignored it, because he was deep in conversation with a guy at the bar on how far the new manager could take the national team. Kerr was outside for a smoke and he was just coming back in the door when Woods pulled out the phone, screwed his eyes up and tried to focus on the screen. It was a voicemail, and when he tried to listen to it there was just too much noise in the pub to get it. He grinned as he passed his new best friend on his way back in. ‘Just be a minute, Sammy.’
He stepped out into the cool evening air and shook his head as he tried to open up his thought processes. He called up the voicemail. When he heard it was McCartney, his first instinct was to cut off the message, but his curiosity held for a moment, then pissed or not the message hit his survival circuits and the smile dropped from his face. It was the usual garbled delivery from McCartney but the message was clear: the Logans were on to him and if he hadn’t been lifted already ‘get the fuck away from wherever you are, mate!’
He tried to convince himself that it was only McCartney and the daft twat was probably high as a kite, but these were special circumstances, and his gut told him he couldn’t afford to get it wrong. He looked round instinctively to see if there was anything out of place on the street. It seemed clear, but he was pissed and knew his street senses were running at only seventy-five per cent capacity.
Woods looked round again and noted a few parked cars but nothing obvious. He called McCartney, lit a smoke and despite the cargo he’d put away, he was sobering up – he couldn’t make any mistakes with the people who were after him. The phone rang on and there was no voicemail. Woods cursed and was about to give up and write it off as McCartney on a bad trip when it was picked up at the other end.
‘What the fuck, Bobo?’ he asked. ‘You takin’ the piss or somethin’?’
McCartney spelled it out in clear detail and Woods already knew about Paterson’s role in sourcing the information for the job in Edinburgh. There was too much detail and far too much at stake to ignore McCartney’s warning. His face drained of what little colour he had, and his heart rate went up a good thirty beats a minute.
‘Have you seen anythin’ funny? Any wide boys hangin’ around?’ The young man was actually trying to be constructive, and despite what McCartney was, he wasn’t guilty of taking the piss – especially when the stakes were this high.
‘Nothin’ unusual. Havin’ a bevvy and takin’ off in the mornin’. Just met up wi’ a guy, Sammy Kerr, who was in A Hall at the same time as me.’ Woods double drew on his fag and turned to look at the front door of the pub. He said ‘fuck’ quietly enough but realised he’d just broken all the rules for someone in as much shit as he was.
‘Don’t know any Sammy Kerr. Is he sound?’
‘Seemed okay but I’m not so sure now. He’s asked a lot of questions now I think about it. And he knows I’ve worked for Big Brenda.’
‘Leg it, Goggsy. Just leg it.’ McCartney put the phone down and knew that a bad situation was deteriorating fast. Waddell handed him the biggest roach he’d ever seen in his life. ‘Light me up for fuck’s sake,’ he urged his friend.
About fifty yards from Woods the two men sitting in a Freelander watched him take the call on the street. They were two of the Logans’ best and every movement and gesture told them that whoever was on the other end of the line was spooking Woods. It might have been a coincidence, but they were pros and always put their money on the worst-case scenario. They called Abe Logan and told him what they’d seen.
‘Okay. First chance you get, lift him if it’s safe, and if he’s been tippled how the fuck has that happened? If that’s what the phone call is then I’m fucked if I know how that’s happened. Don’t lose him . . . right?’
‘We’ve got it covered, Abe, but maybe you can text Sammy just so he knows?’
‘Doin’ it now. Let me know as soon as you get him in the boot.’
Woods made an unnecessary mistake. His coat was still in the boozer and there was a quarter ounce in the lining. His diary with all his contacts, including the London boys, was there too, as well as the keys to the flat he was using. The guy he was bunking up with was away for a couple of days and he needed to get his stuff. It was a gamble, and the bevvy gave him the wrong dose of courage. He walked into the bar and smiled at Kerr, who was reading the text from Abe Logan. They made eye contact just long enough to realise that they both knew what was happening. ‘Need to go, Sammy. A wee burd I’ve been seein’ wants me back up there for a farewell performance. Has to be done, know what I mean?’
Kerr wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t attack Woods in the pub or the law might get involved, so he kept the pretence going as long as they were inside. ‘Fair enough. Think I’ll call it a day as well. Get you outside.’
The question for Woods was whether to run or brass it out. Were there reinforcements outside or was Kerr on his own? He’d no way of knowing, but he was sure he could take care of Kerr if it came to a knuckle debate.
They walked outside and Kerr asked him which way he was going. ‘Want to share a taxi?’
‘Naw, man, need tae walk off the bevvy before I meet the wee burd, know what I mean?’ He winked as best he could.
They walked a few yards from the pub and Woods started to panic because it was a smart area and the street was dead quiet. He had no idea what the best option was so he’d have to gamble that Kerr was on his own and just keeping tabs on him. And, of course, McCartney might have been wrong, meaning that all this aggravation was for nothing. It made no difference – he was for the off in the morning and he couldn’t take the chance on Kerr one way or the other. He had to temporarily take him out of the picture. He stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks, Sammy, enjoyed that. Good to see you, mate.’
Kerr took his hand, and for a Glasgow man he should have seen it coming. He did, but just a fraction of a second too late. As soon as their palms
gripped Woods took a half-step back and pulled Kerr just off balance then pushed his weight forward, at the same time cracking the nut on him. Luckily for Kerr, he was a few inches shorter than Woods, and although it hurt like a bastard, the blow was high on the forehead and didn’t have maximum effect. Kerr’s knees buckled, but he was hard and had enough left in the tank to grab hold of Woods’ jacket and pull him down as well, so they both landed in a heap on the grass verge.
Woods struggled to get clear but Kerr knew he’d get solid shit if he lost the prize and just refused to let go, which meant that although Woods was doing his best to land a haymaker, they were too close to get the desired effect. He was so caught up in the struggle that he never heard Logan’s men trot across the road, but he felt it when one of them drove the end of a pickaxe handle straight into his exposed back – clean on the kidney area. He groaned and almost slid off Kerr, who had a three-inch cut high on his forehead that was pissing blood. They gave him another shot with the pickaxe handle round the knee area, then one to the shoulders, and Woods curled up into a tight little ball. As if that would do him any good. Within one minute he was in the Freelander and told to swallow a couple of tablets or the knife they were holding at his throat would go all the way. Within a couple of minutes they were on the road and the drug was hitting his system. The pain and terror were fading and he felt like he was crawling into a warm clean bed for the night.
They headed for the old workshop near Bellshill where Slab had suffered his near-fatal heart attack. It was off the beaten track and at the bottom of a dead end. The Logans had used it for years to stash gear, and when it was required they used it to interview suspected touts or just anyone who’d pissed off the bosses. They stuck a syringe full of H into Woods’ arm just to top up what was already in his system. He was comatose and wouldn’t move a muscle till the morning, when they’d go to work on him.
Where No Shadows Fall Page 15