February's Son

by Alan Parks

  Pulled out a cracked photograph of a woman standing in front of a garden fence, baby in her arms. Him and his mum by the look of the clothes, looked like it was taken in the ’40s. A wee card with times and places of AA meetings on it. Least the poor bugger had tried, he supposed. Bit of folded newspaper. McCoy unfolded it, wondered why he’d kept an article about planting bulbs early for spring, realised he was looking at the wrong side and turned it over. A function room in a hotel. Three businessmen and a policeman in a dress uniform.

  POLICE CHIEF RETIREMENT DINNER

  Immediately felt dizzy, sick. Looked up. Thomson reluctantly picking up folders from Wattie’s desk. Murray talking to some big guy in uniform about the Melrose score. He tried to breathe, to take slow breaths, stop the spinning in his head.

  He looked back down at it, the picture. Looked closer. The policeman in the dress uniform had something written above his head, blue ballpoint pen capitals.

  PSALMS 56.4

  One he didn’t know. He shouted over to Thomson, ‘We still got those Bibles?’

  Thomson dropped the files on his desk, nodded. ‘Pile of them still in the storeroom.’

  McCoy hurried off, got one, came back and sat at his desk. They’d been bought for the Bible John case. Put away when the trail went cold. He flicked through, found Psalms, nineteenth book of the Bible between Job and Proverbs. Could still recite them after all these years. Found chapter 56. Found verse 4. Read it.

  ‘In God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.’

  Sat back in his chair. Could hear Thomson yelling at Wattie, telling him it wasn’t his bloody stuff on his desk anyway, the radio in the background going through tomorrow’s weather. Himself breathing.

  He read it again.

  Told Wattie his chest was sore and he was taking an early one. Made sure no one was looking and put the wallet into his pocket, the autopsy report under his coat and walked out the door.

  *

  McCoy stood outside the chapel door for a while, smoking, trying not to turn around, go back to the shop and bury himself in Kevin Connolly and Elaine Scobie and Wattie and Thomson grumbling at each other. Didn’t really like being in the office but somehow the thought of it felt comforting now, somewhere safe. But eventually he did what he always knew he was going to do. Dropped his cigarette onto the red gravel, ground it out. Pulled the heavy chapel door open.

  Been a long time since McCoy’d been in a chapel but the smell was still the same. Hit him as soon as he walked in. Floor polish, candles and a faint trace of incense. The chapels he remembered going to when he was a wee boy were dark and cold, designed to instil fear and obedience. At least this one looked a bit friendlier than that.

  Interior wasn’t the usual dark stone; was white plaster and wood, roof shaped like an upturned ship, high windows letting in the last of the afternoon light. There were two big vases of flowers on either side of the altar, some sort of tapestry embroidery thing up on the wall, all bright colours and rainbows, ‘HEAR THE WORD OF THE LORD’ in big multicoloured letters.

  Some things hadn’t changed. There was still a dirty big crucifix on the back wall. Jesus looking down on them all, plaster face wrought with agony and disappointment. He could remember being battered in front of a crucifix just like this one. Sister Helen was her name. Hitting him and hitting him with a leather belt, grabbing him by the hair, making him look up into the eternally disappointed face of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

  Telling him he was worthless, that his mother and father had abandoned him because he was wicked. Telling him he better change his attitude or this would happen every day. Telling him that he was less than a dog in the street. Funny thing, realised now that she couldn’t have been more than nineteen, twenty. Wondered how she’d manage to get so much hate into herself in such a short life.

  He sat down on a pew, tried not to cross himself automatically. The priest was up at the altar arranging the chalice and all the rest of the stuff whose names he couldn’t remember. He was a young guy, tall, late twenties, black suit, ginger hair. He looked up, saw McCoy and smiled, went to walk back through to the chapel house.

  ‘Need a word,’ said McCoy, voice sounding very loud in the empty chapel.

  The priest stopped, turned and walked back towards him. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, holding out his hand to shake. ‘Father Monaghan.’

  McCoy held out his police identity card. ‘Need a word about Paul Brady,’ he said.

  The priest dropped his hand, sat down in the pew in front of him. Looked like he knew this was coming.

  ‘Did you know him?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Not as well as I should have.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Not enough to really help him.’

  McCoy looked round. ‘This where he did it then?’

  The priest nodded, pointed over McCoy’s head. ‘Attached a rope to a pew in the balcony and lowered himself over the edge. I found him when I opened up for six o’clock mass.’ He crossed himself. ‘Was too late to do anything, he was dead already.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Quiet. I tried to talk to him but he seemed very shy. I got the impression he was living rough; looked better on some days than others. I gave him our leaflet about soup kitchens and hostels and told him to come and have a chat any time he wanted.’ He smiled again. ‘Wasn’t enough really, was it?’

  ‘How often did he come in?’

  ‘Couple of times a week maybe, always early mass, sat near the back. Last time was a couple of weeks ago, when we had that really cold spell. He seemed in a bit of a state, half frozen, came in the chapel just to warm up, I think. It was quiet so I made him a cup of tea, sat with him for a while.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘I tried to get him to go to the Simon Community down at Clydeside. I knew they had a few spaces, told them I would call them, make sure they were expecting him. He said he would go, but to be honest he wasn’t making an awful lot of sense. Not sure it really went in.’

  He thought for a minute.

  ‘I don’t think he was drunk, maybe just confused, a bit mixed up about times, where he was. He said something about not being allowed to go to his mother’s funeral, how someone at the Great Eastern had stolen some money from him and did I know where it was. I let him talk on, seemed like he just wanted someone to listen to him. He said he’d seen one of his uncles—’

  McCoy sat forward. ‘What?’

  ‘Said he’d seen an uncle. He was so mixed up I wasn’t sure if it was recently or a long time ago. I can’t remember what he said his name was—’

  ‘Kenny?’ said McCoy.

  The priest looked surprised. ‘How do you know that? Yes, it was. Did you know him?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘What did he say about Uncle Kenny?’

  ‘As I said, he wasn’t making an awful lot of sense. He just said he’d seen him. I said to him that maybe his uncle could help him out, take him in for a bit, maybe?’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He laughed. And then he started crying.’

  The big front doors behind them opened; a blast of cold air and two boys came rolling in. They were laughing, pushing and shoving each other. Immediately stopped when they saw the priest. Knelt and crossed themselves.

  ‘Go and get ready, boys. I’ll be through in a minute,’ said the priest.

  They nodded and hurried off behind the altar.

  ‘Wasn’t so long ago I was an altar boy myself.’ He smiled. ‘Some of the older members of our congregation still treat me like I am.’

  ‘Did he ever come into confession?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Once. He only came in once.’

  ‘When?’

  The priest didn’t reply.

  ‘When?’ repeated McCoy.

  The priest looked up, eyes red. ‘The night before. The night before he did it.’

  ‘And what did he talk about?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘You know I can
’t say anything about that.’ He looked behind him at the altar. ‘I’m sorry, I should get ready.’

  He went to stand up and McCoy grabbed his arm.

  ‘He hung himself in your fucking chapel. Tell me!’

  The priest tried to pull his arm away but McCoy held tighter. He needed to know. ‘Doesn’t make any difference now. The poor bastard’s dead. So you tell me what he said to you.’

  The priest squirmed, tried to get away.

  ‘Fucking tell me!’

  McCoy didn’t realise he was shouting until he heard his voice echoing around the chapel.

  The priest looked at him, open-mouthed. ‘You know what Brady said, don’t you? I can tell by your face.’

  McCoy dropped his arm and started to back away.

  ‘Hold on!’ said the priest. ‘Please! We should talk. Maybe I can help—’

  McCoy got up, started walking towards the door, walking quickly, needing to get out as soon as he could. He could hear the priest calling to him, asking him to come back, voice echoing in the empty chapel. He ignored it, kept walking. Priest called him again, was saying something about the need to unburden, about the strength of prayer.

  McCoy pushed the heavy doors open and stepped out into the cold clean air. The door banged shut behind him. No more priest, just the noise of the evening traffic on the Garscube Road. Sounded good. He leant against the wall of the chapel. Realised he was crying.

  *

  McCoy walked down Renfield Street trying to work out what he was doing. Who was he kidding? He knew fine well what he was doing. He was lighting the fire. He’d been doing that since he walked into the chapel and now he was about to pour petrol on it. No going back after this. The streets were empty, a cold Monday night in February. He passed Forsyth’s windows, full of suits he couldn’t afford to buy, and stopped outside the entrance to the restaurant.

  This was it, last chance to stop the train. Knew if he went in, there was no going back. He thought of Brady hanging in the chapel, of all the other boys who might have done the same thing, and the ones like him and Stevie who had managed to keep going. He owed them. He dropped his cigarette on the pavement, stood on it and opened the door of the Jade Sea.

  He walked up the stairs, wondering why Chinese restaurants were always on the first floor, pushed the door open and went in. The restaurant was decorated like some kind of oriental garden: wee pagoda roofs over the booths, plants and fish tanks, a brightly painted wooden dragon hanging from the ceiling. Effect somewhat lessened by the brown swirly-pattered carpet on the floor.

  A smiling waiter in a dickie bow approached, menu in hand. McCoy pointed over at a booth in the corner. Cooper and his second-in-command Billy Weir deep in conversation with some guy with black slicked-back hair and a long leather coat on. He went to walk over and Jumbo appeared out of nowhere, stood in front of him.

  ‘Sorry, Mr McCoy. Private conversation.’

  He looked over and Cooper held up five fingers. Mouthed ‘five minutes’.

  McCoy sat down at a table, Jumbo sat down beside him, tried to slide a copy of a wee Battle comic under the table before McCoy could see it. Too late.

  ‘Gott im Himmel!’ said McCoy nodding at it. ‘Name of a dog!’

  Jumbo looked a bit puzzled. ‘I’ve got this because Mr Cooper says I have to practise my reading.’

  ‘Fair enough. Not a bad idea.’

  McCoy lit up, dropped his match in the ashtray. Jumbo watched him, face blank as usual, huge hand holding the comic. Couldn’t have been older than seventeen, eighteen. More like a giant kid than anything else. But the muscles under his jumper and the sheer fucking size of him meant he was sitting here keeping guard over Cooper.

  ‘So what’s it like then, working for Stevie?’ asked McCoy.

  Jumbo smiled, face lit up. ‘I like it. Mr Cooper’s a good man to work for.’

  ‘That right?’ asked McCoy. ‘How’s the hand?’

  Jumbo looked flustered. Held it out. One finger half gone, one mangled.

  ‘I had to do it, you know,’ said McCoy. ‘If I didn’t things would be worse. I didn’t want to.’

  Jumbo nodded. ‘I know. If you hadn’t come he would have killed me.’

  It wasn’t a phrase or an exaggeration, just a simple truth. Cooper would have killed him just like he’d killed his mate. And all for stealing a tally book.

  McCoy shook his head. ‘You sure you’re okay with all this, Jumbo?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve got a job, somewhere to stay. I’m lucky.’

  McCoy nodded. Maybe he was. What else was a guy like Jumbo going to do with his life? He’d never get a proper job, maybe day labourer if he was lucky. He nodded at the comic.

  ‘Okay, let’s hear you,’ he said.

  Jumbo opened it up. Started. ‘“Darn signal came through stren, stren-G?”’

  He looked up.

  ‘Strength,’ said McCoy. ‘You say strength. The G is silent.’

  Jumbo looked at him in puzzlement.

  ‘I know,’ said McCoy. ‘Don’t ask me, just the way it is.’

  Jumbo carried on. ‘“Strength three, but I got the gist—”’

  ‘Not gist, jist. You pronounce the—’

  ‘FUCK!’

  They both turned, looked over to the other side of the restaurant. Cooper had a knife in his hand, well, the handle, to be precise. The blade was deep in the guy with the leather coat’s hand, pinning it to the table. He was sobbing, nodding, agreeing with whatever Cooper was hissing into his ear, face twisted in pain.

  From what he could see through the foliage Billy was trying to reason with Cooper, get him to calm down. He didn’t seem to be having much luck. Opposite effect in fact. Cooper told him to fuck off and drove the knife further into the guy’s hand. Another scream.

  ‘Christ,’ said McCoy wincing. ‘What’s going on over there?’

  Jumbo looked over, shrugged. Kept going with his reading.

  ‘“It’s urgent. You better get over to the old man.”’

  McCoy sat back in his chair. Wondered why he was still friends with Cooper. Wondered why he didn’t just do what Murray kept telling him. Keep away. Jumbo was still reading. Paying no attention to what was happening across the other side of the room. Must be inured by now.

  Cooper pulled the knife out and the man slumped against Billy. Billy wrapped his hand in a linen napkin, pulled him out the booth and dragged him towards the door.

  ‘Okay, Harry? Give us a minute,’ he said cheerily as he huckled the terrified man past them.

  Jumbo kept droning on. ‘“Okay, mate. I will send a message to the front—”’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Billy Weir was back, standing there with his hand out. They shook. McCoy liked Billy. Far as he was concerned he was the only one of Cooper’s boys who had any sense. Billy grinned. He was young too, early twenties if that, black hair cut short, little splatter of blood on the cuff of his shirt.

  ‘Had to get rid of that tosser before he started annoying the boss any more. Stupid arse wouldnae be telt. More fool him.’

  He bowed theatrically. ‘His Majesty will see you now.’ Tapped Jumbo on the shoulder. ‘C’mon, pal, let’s go for a walk, buy some fags. Mr Cooper wants some peace.’

  They left and McCoy wandered over to the booth, waited as the waiter wrapped up the bloody tablecloth, dropped it in a bucket and laid out a fresh one.

  ‘You again?’ said Cooper mildly. ‘Want some dinner?’

  McCoy nodded. Cooper told the waiter to start the food coming. He never ordered anything, just left them to decide what was good that day.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘My business,’ said Cooper, wiping the bloody blade of the knife on another napkin and putting it in his jeans pocket.

  McCoy put the autopsy file down on the table, wallet on top of it.

  Cooper pulled them over to his side, opened the file, skimmed it. ‘Some bloke’s hung himself.’ He grinned. ‘Well, at least they cannae pi
n that one on me.’

  McCoy tapped the name. Cooper read it again.

  ‘Paul Joseph Brady. So? Who’s he when he’s at home?’

  ‘Joey. He’s Joey,’ said McCoy.

  Cooper looked up at him. ‘What? Wee Joey? Naw.’ He looked at the photo stapled to the front again. ‘You sure?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘Poor bugger,’ said Cooper. ‘Never did have much going for him.’

  McCoy opened the wallet, took out the clipping from the paper, flattened it out. Cooper looked at it, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He had this on him when he hung himself. He must have recognised him too.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Cooper, pointing at the writing above the policeman’s head.

  ‘Biblical quote. “In God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.”’

  A waiter appeared, started laying plates on the table. Cooper sat back, let him fuss, arranging the food, side plates and bowls, cutlery. Kept his eyes on McCoy. Eventually the table was to the waiter’s satisfaction. He bowed and walked off.

  ‘Uncle Kenny,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Uncle Kenny,’ said McCoy. ‘Give me a day or so, I’ll have a look in the files. Find out where he lives.’

  ‘And then we beat the living fuck out him,’ said Cooper.

  McCoy nodded. ‘And then we beat the living fuck out of him.’

  Cooper grinned. ‘Why don’t you just do what I say when I say it, McCoy? Save time.’

  ‘Because I’m an arsehole. That right?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Cooper picked up a spare rib, started gnawing at it. ‘Got some good news today. Billy phoned from Hong Kong. Supply line back up and running.’

  ‘So the great plan’s taking shape?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘Things are going to change, Harry, change big-time. What you doing the night?’

  ‘Nothing planned,’ said McCoy.