Where No Shadows Fall

by Peter Ritchie

  38

  MacKay was a razor-sharp operator but always concentrated far too much on his own priorities, and it was a weakness that was often enough a severe pain in the arse for some of his junior staff. Characters like McCartney meant almost nothing to him, and although for a short time he’d been an excellent means to an end, the situation at Bellshill was now over and it was a clean-up operation, with law enforcement getting a result that the public would like and sections of the press would slaver over. Dead bad guy dispatched by the police and another one slaughtered by his own kind. Two for the price of one – it really didn’t get much better than that. They had complete cover on taking McManus out and procedures had been followed so the fall-out would be minimal and, most importantly, containable.

  The problem for McCartney was that as the clouds of dust fell over the aftermath of the incident in Bellshill, MacKay forgot altogether that the boy who’d walked in off the street and gave them the turn was still sitting in a cramped office in Pitt Street. He was squeezed into what had once been a document store without windows or ventilation and in the company of a junior detective who’d been told to shut the fuck up and just keep an eye on the wee ned till someone with credibility came to relieve him. The junior detective had been identified as an arse, and his days in the department were numbered. Till the day they could hoof him out of the door he was the office gofer.

  The long, almost lonely silence in that office became excruciating for both the DC and McCartney’s bladder, which was swollen to combustion point with the coffee that had been piled into him earlier, when he’d been the main man for about half an hour. He started to shift uncomfortably on the old office chair and couldn’t control the urge to fidget, which helped keep his mind off the need for a slash.

  As the time crawled by McCartney’s fingers crept over the levers at the side of the chair, and because he was who he was, he pulled on the handle without thinking. That was the story of his life. That chair had been retired into that small room for over a year because it was way past its sell-by date for a piece of cheap shite. As always in public service no one had the authority to dump it, so they stuck it in a room where it could serve no useful purpose whatsoever. It could have been described as broken, though the label ‘death trap’ might have done it justice as well. The back of the chair flapped backwards taking McCartney and the startled DC by complete surprise. McCartney’s weight had been leaning back as the support disappeared and the result was that he flipped towards the floor and did a backwards somersault that most gymnasts would have been proud of – until the wall stopped him completing the move. It was all too much for the DC, who was already an angry man because no one liked him and he was stuck in a room with a halfwit who stank of cheap aftershave. He sprang to his feet in surprise then anger. All the frustration at being a wanker and unable to do anything about it welled up, and he screamed at McCartney and partly at himself. ‘I’ve had enough . . . Bastard!’

  The DC sank the boot into McCartney’s abdomen, and to be fair he would never have planned it, but the inevitable happened because McCartney had just had the fright of his life and temporarily forgot that he was keeping iron control over his bladder. He pissed himself, and although the DC had been about to work him over he recoiled in horror as the dark stain spread over the front and legs of McCartney’s new jeans and proceeded to creep menacingly across the surface of the old wooden floor towards his shoes. The DC cancelled the rest of the attack.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ the DC said in a strangled voice. He’d made a terrible mistake. He remembered that he was supposed to be a cop and put his hand to his mouth as a passing uniformed inspector heard the commotion, opened the door and looked back and forward between the victim, who was crying, and the DC who’d joined him.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Who the fuck are you and who the fuck is that on the floor?’

  MacKay got the call from Tony Slaven, who’d just had a rocket from a uniformed super. It was an assault on a witness on police premises so they needed a skull to crush. MacKay tried to get his head round the scene, but it was difficult. It was a minor glitch on what had been a big day, but he was an expert at covering his arse, and the fact that the DC was already marked out as a dead man walking was a good start. MacKay would shift the blame to the DS, who’d been McCartney’s first point of contact, and blame him for putting a twat in to cover McCartney during the operation. MacKay could claim that they did have plans for McCartney and were going to get back to him. ‘Let the uniforms get on with fixing the DC. Get a hold of McCartney and talk to him for a couple of hours then tell him to piss off.’

  ‘He thinks he goin’ into witness protection, boss – new life an’ all that shite.’

  ‘He’s goin’ nowhere, Tony. What can he give us now? Stories about robberies where we have no complaint from a victim. Kick his arse.’

  Slaven didn’t like it but broke the news to McCartney that there would be no new life courtesy of the taxpayer and that he’d need to take his chances back on the street.

  ‘But Psycho’ll kill me.’ McCartney’s brief dreams of a fresh start in some exotic spot were crumbling in front of his eyes.

  ‘Well, he’ll need to break out of the fuckin’ fridge in the mortuary first, son.’

  McCartney blinked and started rubbing his chin in a nervous reaction to the news. He tried to work out what it all meant. He asked about Woods, and Slaven spared him the details, just saying that he was dead as well and McManus had probably been responsible. It was still being investigated. ‘You should be okay, son – as far as we know Big Brenda will just keep the head down and shouldn’t worry you.’

  McCartney just wasn’t sure what the Logans would know or whether they would care about him. He’d called Woods and warned him but hadn’t left his name, so maybe they knew nothing to connect him . . . but maybe they did. Maybe Brenda would come after him regardless – but what good would it do her? The way she was going she’d never collect her old age pension. It was a lot to try and work out, and there was no answer that would let him sleep easy. It made no difference; he was shown the door in Pitt Street and given the less than reassuring advice that if there was any problem ‘just call’.

  He walked the streets in something close to a state of shock. He’d gone in to save Woods’ life and done his best. The poor bastard was a goner, but that wasn’t his fault.

  It started to rain and his clothes were soon soaked, which added to the misery of pissing himself in the cop shop. Having lived his life among people who quite often suffered serious hygiene problems, it shouldn’t have bothered him, but the jeans were beginning to stink, and, if anything, being drenched in the cold Glasgow rain made the problem even worse. He wandered into a coffee shop to warm up but a minute and a half later the manager ordered him out onto the street and rubbed even more misery into his wounded soul by calling him a ‘durty bastard’. McCartney was pissed off, scared and lonely.

  There was only one place he could rest his head for the night and be welcome and that was at Wee Peem’s. As he trudged towards his friend’s door, he knew there was something he needed to do, which went against the grain for him, and that was to tell the truth. Peem had trusted him, thought he was the dug’s baws and liked being his friend. In his past, he would have just made up some new fantasy to cover his arse, but Peem deserved better than that. McCartney had admitted to himself that he wasn’t and never would be a big-time operator, and Wee Peem was the true level of society he should be content with.

  It was strange because it was almost like a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. The years spent trying to be something he could never achieve had done nothing but shatter his ego, and he’d rarely slept properly for worrying about his catastrophes. He began to imagine nothing more complicated than watching movies filled with explosions and shattered bodies, a few cans of beer and arguing about the state of Scottish football. That was enough, all he really wanted, and as the thought began to take real hold he straightened his
back and quickened his step.

  39

  McCartney scratched his chin a few times as he explained exactly what had happened, and basically it was a confession to being a complete and utter lying bastard. Wee Peem never said a word during McCartney’s long rambling disclosure, and when it was finished a knowing smile lit his face. Peem put the forefinger of his right hand under his eye and pulled downwards.

  ‘Aye right then, Pat. I believe you.’ He let the lower eyelid snap upwards again and winked. ‘Stay here as long as you like, mate.’

  Wee Peem had listened to McCartney tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth for the first time in his life and didn’t believe a word.

  McCartney wanted to say for fuck’s sake but he was a born-again Christian and that was the language of his old life. He tried again and told his mate about his newly discovered faith.

  Wee Peem listened again, then pulled his lower eyelid down again and followed it up with another wink. ‘Whatever you say. Secret’s safe wi’ me, pal.’

  McCartney stared at his friend. He couldn’t even get Wee Peem to believe him when he was telling the truth. He began to see the funny side of it and pulled his own eyelid down then winked back at his friend. ‘Knew I could trust you, pal.’

  They stuck on Terminator 2, and although McCartney was a Christian he thought that a few beers were permissible given the day he’d had.

  They switched the box off at about 3 a.m. and McCartney was out of it about three seconds after his head hit the pillow. He’d decided that there was nothing he could do about Big Brenda, but everybody and their auntie wanted her as fuel for the crematorium so he would put his trust in God.

  He woke up with a start about an hour later, having dreamt that she was at the window. Once he realised it was just a nightmare he relaxed again and slept soundly.

  The next morning, McCartney decided that there was no way he was going to hide from the world till he could be sure he was off the wanted list, and when he left the flat around midday the sun was sparkling and there was real heat in the air. He caught a bus into the city centre, wandered round the shops and watched the world go by. He only had a few quid, but it was enough to enjoy the day, and when he looked into the windows of a couple of fast-food outlets he noticed signs saying they were looking for staff. McCartney hadn’t worked a day in his short life but this was a new chapter and he thought, Why not?

  He decided to enjoy a couple of hours, get a sandwich then try them for a job. The thought excited him, and he sensed that there were still possibilities in the world but now they wouldn’t involve crime. He felt his pulse race with excitement and he headed towards a Costa for a blast of caffeine. That’s when he picked up the sound of the music. In his old life, it would have washed over or past him, but this wasn’t his old life. It took him two minutes to walk to the source of the music, and as he stood in front of the players something spoke to him.

  A woman who was standing beside the players with a pile of leaflets in her hand noticed McCartney’s expression and could see he might be a potential customer. They were rare enough now in this godless society. She stepped forward and McCartney had his first conversation with someone from the Salvation Army.

  40

  Macallan looked out of the window of the turboprop as it descended over Belfast Lough on its way to land at George Best Airport. She felt the nerves in her stomach rattle with anticipation, and she still found it hard to believe that it was only a few short years since she’d left Northern Ireland a lonely and exhausted woman after everything she’d believed in had conspired to destroy her career and what had been her personal life. She’d fought in the Dirty War and seen so many good men and women die or have their lives torn apart by injury and grief, but had ended up an outcast in the organisation that she’d loved and been proud to serve. On the day she’d sailed out of the Lough on board the Stena ferry to start a new life in Scotland, she’d sworn she would never set foot on Ulster’s soil again.

  In the intervening years, she’d rebuilt that career and surprisingly fallen in love again with the man who’d deserted her back then when she’d needed him most. That experience was perhaps the greatest lesson she’d ever had. Even though she’d turned her back on religion when she’d seen what it was responsible for in the Troubles, she’d forgiven Jack Fraser, saw what was so good in him, forgot his failure and in three weeks’ time they would marry – a family, two children included. It was something she would never have believed possible in those dark days when she had begun to doubt there was a good human being, including herself, in this world. Now she was like a teenager again, excited by the prospect of the future, and the job was now simply a part of her life instead of all of it.

  When she walked through the gates she immediately saw Jack with Adam and Kate, one in each arm; the three of them were grinning from ear to ear and both children had their arms outstretched. Macallan felt her nose run and a couple of fat tears bobbled down her cheeks. Adam struggled out of his father’s arms and toddled towards Macallan with some thick coloured scribbles on a piece of paper.

  ‘I think that might be a picture of you, Grace.’ Jack said it with his deeply serious court face.

  ‘Is that for me, Adam?’ She tried to take the piece of artwork, but he wasn’t for letting go, so she just swept the boy up for a cuddle. Kate was still grinning at her from her father’s arms.

  ‘God, I missed you lot. Let’s get home.’ Her voice choked, and she loved that feeling of belonging heart and soul to those three other human beings who cared what happened to her.

  ‘I wish some of those hard men you used to chase about could see the real snivelling you.’ Jack bent down a few inches to let her kiss him, and the four of them did a long, warm group hug.

  Macallan felt pressure on her lower leg and realised she’d forgotten one of the family. She unlocked herself and crouched down to hold the dog behind both ears and laughed as he almost unbalanced through sheer excitement. When they’d inherited the dog from his original owner, who was a pimp jailed after the Pete Handyside case, it came with the unlikely handle of Gnasher, which was a bit of a stretch for a spoodle. Jack had demanded a name change, quite rightly pointing out that the dog wouldn’t mind. So Gnasher became Gary, and to be fair the dog hadn’t objected once.

  The children were so excited that they managed to tire themselves out and, thankfully, Macallan was able to see them off to sleep without too much effort. The next day would be all for them, but what she wanted this evening was to sit with Jack talking rubbish. He was pro-union, and she was starting to admire wee Nicola, who’d now graduated to just needing her first name to be recognised as the one and only, so they’d made a pact over red wine to avoid politics.

  There had been a system of freezing northerly air washing in from the Arctic and it gave them the perfect excuse to pile up the open fire and let the warmth of the flames soothe them into a contented peace with just some music to add to the feeling that they were completely away from all the troubles in the world. The dog took up his favourite position a few feet from the warm flames and settled down to his dreams, and Macallan did something she had never been capable of in the past – she completely forgot about the job she was doing and for a few hours didn’t really care. That lasted until Jack finally asked the question that had been hanging in the air since she’d arrived. What he said took her by surprise and made her realise that after the disaster in Belfast, the loss of her best friend and bearing witness to too many horrors, she’d now been gifted more than she could ever have wanted.

  ‘Look, before we put the lights out, I don’t know what this is you’re working on and I should be pissed off . . . but I’m not.’ He leaned over, kissed her neck and made her meet his eyes. ‘I know you can’t really give this thing up. We made a deal, but it won’t work, and I’ve heard so much about how good you are at it . . . Just a couple of things though – I don’t want to know what this is about so don’t bring it home. We have these two people in our lives n
ow and they matter the most. Okay?’

  He waited but Macallan had no idea how to reply or what had made him say what he had. Instead she nodded and tried to think of something that would have meaning that he could accept.

  ‘Don’t bring it home.’ He said it for the second time, and for a man like Jack Fraser that was proof enough that he meant it. ‘In the past you’ve used the odd drink or bout of self-loathing as medicine for what you’ve had to do. Now you have all this and people who love you. That’s the medicine now, so when you feel frightened, remember those demons can’t get near you when you’re with us.’

  He kissed her again and she held him as tightly as she could. ‘There’s also the small matter of a wedding – and unless I’m mistaken you’re an important part of the proceedings.’ He held her face and she watched his face break into the broad smile that still made her chest tighten with emotion.

  ‘You’re the best, Jack. I don’t want to be with anyone else. That’s the truth.’

  They both slept soundly, and the demons never came near Macallan that night.

  41

  Frankie Logan sipped the last of his coffee and wondered why he kept drinking the stuff. The taste was bitter and his breath stank after it, but it gave him the occasional lift when he was feeling a bit jaded. He was tired, and kept nipping the bridge of his nose and rubbing it as if it would make any difference. He was calm enough – his great gift was staying focused when things were rough, and the news from Bellshill meant things were definitely rough. He’d spent hours trying to make sense of what had happened and work the various options so that he was sure his response was the right one. In the first place, when his brother Abe had called him, he’d reported that it was all about McManus and that the big man had lost it with Woods. It had all been for nothing because the job was just to get the boy to pin the target on Big Brenda. Frankie had never been into killing nonentities like Woods unless it was completely necessary. A tanking and maybe a couple of facial scars usually got the same result.