February's Son

by Alan Parks

McCoy nodded.

  Cooper pulled the door open and they walked down the corridor towards the lift. Just two guys heading home.

  *

  They ended up in the Victoria in Partick. The two of them sat there drinking pints, not saying much. Too many memories, too much to think about. Cooper had taken his jacket and tie off, unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. Still looked uncomfortable. McCoy watched him light up, noticed he had dried blood under his nails.

  He swallowed back the whisky Cooper had ordered him, wondered what his life would have been like if they’d never met. If Cooper’d never helped him survive when he was a boy. Maybe he’d be as lost as Joe Brady, living on the streets, trying to drink everything away until you couldn’t any longer.

  Cooper picked up his pint, drained it. Noticed McCoy was staring at him. ‘What’s up with you?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Wanker,’ said Cooper, standing up. ‘I’ll get us another pint.’

  He couldn’t remember much about beating Uncle Kenny. Remembered him coming in the room, remembered Cooper getting him down on the floor, remembered seeing that fucking signet ring again, and then nothing until Cooper pulled him off, got him into the bathroom and he saw his face in the mirror. White. Saw all the blood on his hands, the spray of it on his cheek.

  ‘Here.’ Cooper put another couple of pints on the table, sat down. ‘Listen to me. We got in and out. Did it. No one saw us. The cunt deserved it. End of story. Don’t you sit there getting all fucking bent out of shape about it. You hear me?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘Now get that pint down you.’

  McCoy took a sip of his pint. Did what Stevie told him. Same as always.

  He left Cooper in the pub waiting for Jumbo to turn up. Told him he was going to go and get something to eat, a fish supper. Cooper told him to pull himself together and just forget today. What was done was done. McCoy nodded, said he would.

  He didn’t go to the chippie. Didn’t want anything to eat. He went to the Haddows at the bottom of his street and bought six cans and a half-bottle of whisky. Got home, took them out the bag and lined them up on the kitchen table. Got the Mandies he’d bought from the Wizard, shook three out the bottle and lined them up on the kitchen table too.

  The panic was starting to rise again, the fear. What the fuck had he done? Thought he was going be sick, could see the blood on the carpet, Uncle Kenny’s broken fingers, the smell of chlorine coming off him, the bruises on his belly, the look on his face when Stevie grabbed him.

  He swallowed the pills with the first can. Drank another. And another. All he wanted was to black out for a while, to not be here, to not be thinking about Uncle Kenny or the basement or the fucking signet ring. All he wanted was oblivion.

  He opened the bottle of whisky, drank. Sat back on the couch. Could feel the Mandies kicking in, could feel the warmth spreading through his body, could feel the past receding like waves on a beach. He’d missed this, those druggy weekends with Angela. Feeling of letting go, letting the drugs take over. Swallowed another Mandie with the whisky.

  Goodbye, Uncle Kenny. Goodbye, St Andrew’s. Goodbye to all the fucking homes he’d been left in. His eyes were closing. He could feel the whisky bottle fall out of his hand, onto the floor. Goodbye to the smell of sweat and talcum. Goodbye to . . .

  16th February 1973

  TWENTY-THREE

  He could hear knocking. Opened his eyes, realised there was someone at the door. He looked at the clock, took a while to focus. Eight a.m. Head felt like it was underwater. Waited for the knocking to stop, turned over, fell back down into sleep. A sleep with no dreams.

  More knocking. He looked at the clock. Ten past eleven. He groaned. Could hear Wattie at the door, shouting his name. He sat up, waited for the room to steady itself. He managed to get out of bed, realised he still had his suit on, and headed for the front door.

  His vision was slightly off, seemed to be a double edge round things, everything just a little out of whack. Couldn’t stand straight, kept swaying, wasn’t helping him make it along the hall. Put his hand on the wall to try and steady himself. Wished Wattie would stop banging. Managed to get the door open. Heard Wattie say, ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

  And blacked out.

  *

  He could hear Wattie on the phone, must be talking to Murray. He was telling him that he had terrible food poisoning, that he wasn’t well at all. He seemed to be back in his bed, wasn’t sure how. Felt different. Realised he didn’t have his suit on any more, just his skivvies. Bedroom curtains were drawn back, a dim light seeping in, illuminating a bucket by the bed half full of watery sick. There was a pint glass of water on the bedside table. He drank it down in one, fell back asleep.

  Two hours later he was in the car, Wattie driving. He’d had a bath, two big mugs of black coffee and a lecture from Wattie, who looked more scared than anything else, and was holding some toast. Sat there trying to eat it, cotton wool in his mouth, while Wattie told him he’d flushed the rest of the Mandrax down the toilet and that he was a fucking disgrace.

  He leant against the car window, still feeling like shit. At least his vision seemed back to normal, no double edges. Just a headache that would fell a horse. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cold window and tried to concentrate on what Wattie was saying.

  ‘He’s fucking well done it again,’ said Wattie.

  ‘Who?’ he asked. Not really sure what he was talking about.

  ‘Fuck sake!’ said Wattie. ‘Who’d you think? Connolly!’

  ‘Ah,’ said McCoy, trying to find his cigarettes in his coat.

  ‘And Murray is going nut job without you there.’

  Wattie stopped at a set of lights on Dumbarton Road. Two women with big sprung prams crossed in front of them, fur coats and Rainmates tied under their chins. Wattie rubbed at the screen with what looked like a red football sock with a big hole in it.

  ‘So if he asks, you had a curry last night, got food poisoning, been throwing up ever since. Right?’

  McCoy nodded.

  Wattie pushed the clutch in and they accelerated away.

  ‘He’ll believe you, you look fucking rough enough.’ He turned to him. ‘What happened anyway?’

  McCoy shook his head. Lit up. Drew the smoke into his lungs, felt his stomach rolling. ‘Just one of those nights.’

  ‘You better watch yourself, McCoy.’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ he said, sat up in his seat. Fag seemed to be making him feel better. ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Elaine Scobie. You said Connolly had done it again.’

  Wattie shook his head. ‘You must have been more out of it than I thought this morning. I told you all this already! It’s no Elaine Scobie. It’s Chief Constable Burgess.’

  ‘What?’ asked McCoy. Couldn’t have heard what he thought he had.

  ‘The chief constable from Dunbartonshire! Kenneth Burgess. Got done last night.’

  *

  ‘You picked the wrong fucking day to get sick,’ said Murray. ‘Teach you to eat all that Indian shite. Sick of telling you. You all right now?’

  McCoy nodded, couldn’t believe he was back in the foyer of the Albany. Felt like he’d fallen through a hole in the floor since Wattie’d told him. Had to stop the car on Bothwell Street to be sick.

  Mind spinning, wondering how the fuck Connolly had got to Uncle Kenny. Wondered how the fuck he was going to survive this investigation without getting caught. A chief constable killed, the big boys would be on high alert, no stone unturned. He was fucked. Really, really fucked.

  ‘Come on,’ said Murray. ‘We’ve wasted enough time.’

  Murray walked towards the lifts, McCoy followed him. Wasn’t sure if it was the after-effects of the Mandies but he felt like he was watching himself, that he wasn’t really there. He got into the lift and Wattie asked Murray what floor it was. McCoy was about to say ‘the third’ befor
e he caught himself.

  The lift started climbing. He felt too hot, could feel Murray staring at him, not believing the food-poisoning story. He wanted to say something, to try and act normal, but he was too scared he would slur his words.

  ‘You okay?’

  He turned and Murray was looking at him, pointing at his forehead. McCoy put his hand up; the sweat was pouring off him. He got a hanky out his pocket, tried to wipe it off. The lift pinged and the door opened. Long corridor in front of them, same carpet that was in the rooms, same carpet that had been wet with Uncle Kenny’s blood. Wave of dizziness and nausea.

  He stepped out the lift and followed Murray down the corridor towards the group of people standing outside room 334.

  The usual crew. Thomson, Andy the photographer, Gilroy, couple of uniforms. Nods and hellos and the crowd moved aside to let them through. If McCoy knew one thing he knew he couldn’t go back into that room. He pulled Murray’s arm.

  ‘Sir, if I go in that room I’m going be sick or faint, probably both. I’m still not well. I’ll just be in the way.’

  Murray looked at him, shook his head. Opened the bedroom door.

  McCoy waited, listened to the voices beyond the door. Tried to work out what the fuck was going on. Connolly and Uncle Kenny? What was that about? Few minutes later, and Cooper and him could have passed Connolly in the corridor. And what did Connolly think when he opened the door and Uncle Kenny was lying there, half dead already?

  Murray reappeared; even he looked shocked. ‘Lucky for you you’re sick, McCoy. Has to be the worst yet.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ McCoy asked.

  ‘More like what he hasn’t. Seems to have spent his time battering him with some sort of hammer or something. Then he really went to town.’ Murray scratched at his bristles. Looked pained. ‘Carved BEAST into his stomach. Fucking used flash-bulbs lying on the floor again—’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Poked both his eyes out as well, left them lying on the carpet.’

  Suddenly all McCoy could hear was a loud buzzing. The walls were starting to wobble and blur. Tried to say ‘Murray’, tried to hold onto the doorframe, missed it. Went down. Saw Murray looking down at him and then nothing.

  *

  Wasn’t quite sure how he’d got there but when he opened his eyes he was sitting in an armchair in the hotel foyer. Two wee girls were staring at him, eyes wide. Scarpered when he tried to sit up. He sat for a minute watching the comings and goings, breathing slowly, trying to feel normal. Head hurt. He reached up, could feel a big bump on the back of it, must have happened when he fell. The lift door opened and Wattie stepped out, headed for him.

  ‘How’s you?’ he asked.

  ‘Better. A bit.’

  ‘You went down like a ton of bricks. Andy took a picture of you lying on the floor, says he’s going to put it up on the noticeboard.’

  ‘Is he now? Always was a wee prick. Where’s Murray?’

  ‘Still up there, talking to Gilroy. Sent me down to see if you’re okay.’

  ‘I will be. Soon as you get me a cup of tea.’

  Wattie rolled his eyes, walked off towards the bar.

  McCoy was beginning to feel human again, like he had a massive hangover but the fuzziness was gone. Could think straight now. Knew what he had to do.

  Wattie came back with two teas, handed him one and sat down beside him. ‘You gonnae tell me what really happened last night?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ He slurped his tea to a look of disapproval from a woman in a hat and her elderly mother walking past on the way to the dining room.

  ‘How’d they find him?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Didn’t turn up for the boxing last night. Murray thought he’d decided not to come, staying at home, so nobody bothered until housekeeping found him this morning.’

  ‘Lucky them.’

  ‘Tell you what I don’t get? What’s Chief Constable Burgess got to do with Connolly or the Scobies? Doesn’t make any sense. Why would Connolly want to kill him?’

  Wattie was on a roll now, musing away. McCoy let him ramble. All he was doing was waiting for Murray to come downstairs.

  ‘Maybe he’s decided to just kill polis. Any polis. Gone right off the edge? Or maybe Burgess arrested him once and this is his way of getting revenge? What d’you think?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or maybe Burgess was a dirty copper? In cahoots with Scobie and something went wrong, decided to take revenge?’

  McCoy nodded again. Was about to tell Wattie to shut up, wasn’t sure how many more of his stories he could take, when the lift pinged and Murray and Gilroy stepped out. Wattie stood up, waved them over.

  Gilroy looked down at him. ‘Mr McCoy, I believe you have some sort of food poisoning?’ McCoy nodded. ‘Can be very nasty, you know. You need to be careful, keep yourself hydrated and restore your equilibrium. Flat Coca-Cola always does the trick, I find. Try that. Then maybe some dry toast in the morning.’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned to Murray. ‘And I’ll see you this evening at the autopsy. They taking the body out by the service lift?’

  Murray nodded.

  ‘Advisable. Well, gents, I will bid you adieu. And remember, Mr McCoy, flat Coca-Cola!’

  They watched her go, walking towards the big front doors, black bag in one hand, umbrella in the other.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Murray. ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Alone.’

  They both looked at Wattie. He shook his head. ‘I’ll go back up and see how they’re getting on.’

  McCoy stood up. ‘Let’s go to the bar. I’m not sure I can do this without a drink.’

  They sat at a table at the back, away from what looked like the aftermath of a particularly drunken wedding. Murray had bought two double whiskies without asking, sensed something was up. Put them down on the glass table and sat down. The bar was at the end of reception, an enclosed space lined with strange black-and-white paintings of glens and mountains.

  ‘Well?’ asked Murray. ‘Why the cloak and dagger?’

  ‘I know why Connolly killed Burgess,’ said McCoy.

  Murray raised his eyebrows.

  ‘If we do a bit of digging I think we’ll find out that Connolly was in a care home or a residential school near Helensburgh when he was young.’

  ‘And?’ said Murray.

  McCoy took a drink of his whisky, carried on. ‘A couple of days ago a bloke called Joe Brady killed himself, hung himself—’

  ‘In the chapel in Firhill.’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Gilroy gave me his stuff after the autopsy. He had a photo in his wallet cut out from the paper. Burgess at some charity function a few weeks ago. He’d written the number of a Bible verse above his head. “In God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.”’

  ‘What are you saying to me, McCoy?’ Murray looked angry. ‘That Burgess beat him? Gave him a doing?’

  McCoy shook his head ‘No. I’m saying he fucked him.’

  ‘What? Bollocks! He was married, went to the church, he was a bloody elder! I knew him for twenty years. There’s no bloody way—’

  ‘Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. He wasn’t a homosexual,’ McCoy said quietly. ‘I’m talking years ago. When Joe was ten or so. Little boys. Burgess liked wee boys.’

  Murray stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Murray sat back in his chair. ‘Burgess? Are you sure?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘I’m sure all right.’

  ‘Christ. If word gets out about this and it’s not true you’ll ruin his reputation. He’s got a wife and kids . . .’

  ‘And that means he has to be a good guy? That’s not how it works, Murray, you know that.’

  Murray rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘Man like that? It’s hard to believe.’

  ‘Yeah,
well, men like Burgess are good at hiding their tracks. Need to be. That’s how they get away with it for so long. Brady had a shite life, been in a care home. When he was there he was raped by Burgess. He saw his picture in the paper. The man was on the down spiral already, must have sent him over the edge. Chances are if Connolly was in a care home or an orphanage, he ran into Burgess as well.’

  ‘He was a beast,’ said Murray.

  McCoy nodded. ‘That’s why it was carved into his chest.’

  ‘So how come you know all this?’ Murray asked. He was looking at McCoy with something like fear in his eyes.

  For a second McCoy thought about it, thought about really telling him why he knew. He looked past Murray at the remains of the wedding, some wee boy in a kilt being given a packet of crisps and a Coca-Cola by his half-cut dad in a creased dinner suit. Mum and her pals in the corner with gin and tonics and bottles of Babycham. Normal life. He took a breath.

  ‘Brady’s priest told me. He went to confession the day before he killed himself.’

  ‘And let me guess, this priest will deny telling you if we ask him?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘He has to, sanctity of the confession box and all that.’

  ‘So why did he tell you, Harry?’

  McCoy shook his head. Could feel the beginnings of tears in his eyes, knew if he spoke they would come.

  Murray sat forward, big hands resting on the knees of his tweed suit. Rubbed at his bristles, settled himself, looked McCoy straight in the face. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, son? You know you can tell me anything, no matter what it is. Sometimes it’s better to get these things out in the open.’

  McCoy shook his head, could feel a tear running down his cheek, could see that his hand holding the whisky glass was trembling.

  ‘If there ever is, Harry, you can tell me. Okay?’

  McCoy nodded, sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve.

  Murray stood up, picked up his hat, put his hand on McCoy’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Go home, son, eh? Get yourself some rest. Don’t tell this to anyone else. Find out what you can tomorrow. Tell no one else, okay? I mean it.’

  McCoy watched as Murray walked past the wedding party and out the door of the lounge. And then he started to cry.