by Alan Parks
Perhaps I have not measured accurately enough. Perhaps my body really is filling up with dead matter after all. I am tired. Tired of blood on my clothes and skin. Tired of trying to wash it off. Tired of waiting and planning and thinking. I want to sleep. To taste something other than shite in my mouth.
I have to conserve what energy I have left. The end is beginning.
Where do I go now?
No more hotels and boarding houses.
I just need quiet.
Room to think, to sleep, to understand what is happening to me.
The past is overwhelming me. Even what I have done has not given me peace.
Things are failing, soon they will go wrong. My head hurts all the time.
I don’t have much time left.
The end is beginning. My road is almost run.
17th February 1973
TWENTY-FOUR
He was up and out the flat at half four, had managed to sleep for a couple of hours, more than he thought he would. But the sleep he’d had hadn’t helped much. Nightmares. Images of Connolly going round in his head, images of Uncle Kenny. Stuff he didn’t want to think about. Woke up in a sweat, sheets soaking beneath him. Needed to do something, get moving. Couldn’t be alone with his thoughts any more.
If he was quick he could catch Cooper before he went to bed. Friday nights were for going out, that was his rule, didn’t often break it. The dark streets outside the flat were covered in a thick frost, white and sparkling in the streetlights. His shoes crunched as he walked up the hill towards Hyndland Road.
No matter what club or lock-in they’d been at, for Cooper and his pals the party didn’t stop there, always ended up back at someone’s flat. Flying on speed, fuck knows what else, no way were they going to bed yet.
Chances were they would be back at Billy Weir’s. Billy wasn’t married, liked a party as much as Cooper did, but he did have a doting mother. Came round twice a week and tidied the place up for him, did the dishes and his washing so the flat wasn’t quite the bachelor dump a guy like Billy usually lived in.
Billy lived just off Great Western Road on the borderline of the student flats surrounding the university and the family flats of the normal families who worked in Maryhill and St George’s Cross. By the time McCoy noticed where he was, just walking over Kelvinbridge, he was almost there. Had been lost in thought. Wondering what Connolly was going do next. If he was finished with the Scobies and starting to even old scores God knows where it would lead. How many more people had done him wrong? Funnily enough, it looked like Elaine had been right after all. Connolly wasn’t interested in hurting her, just the people around her.
He got to Billy’s close in Dunearn Street, started climbing the stairs. Up past the graffitied walls and plastic bags full of rubbish dumped outside the doors. Billy was on the top floor, as was every bugger McCoy ever went to visit. He got to the landing, leant on the handrail, stood for a minute, listened. Might be too late, he couldn’t hear anything, no music or laughing. Fuck it, he’d come this far, he was going to get Cooper up if he had to.
He knocked the door, stood back in surprise as it was opened immediately. An anxious-looking Billy, suit and tie still on, was standing there. Was only when he stepped into the light of the hall that McCoy noticed he had blood down the front of his suit and all over his pale blue shirt.
‘McCoy? What you doing here? Thought you were Dr Purdie.’
‘What’s going on, Billy?’
Billy held the door open. ‘Come in, he’s in the bathroom.’
McCoy walked through the flat. There were a couple of dressed-up girls in the living room he didn’t recognise, sitting on the couch under the big Jack Daniel’s mirror. Short skirts and long hair, platform sandals. Coffee table in front of them covered in empty glasses and ashtrays, smell of dope in the air. Record was playing quietly, sounded like James Taylor, someone like that. He nodded at them and followed Billy down the corridor.
Jumbo was standing guard by the bathroom door. Jeans, jumper and white sandshoes covered in dark blood. He looked scared, face white, chewing at his nails. ‘Mr McCoy.’
‘Fuck’s going on, Jumbo? Where’s Stevie?’
Jumbo nodded to the bathroom. ‘I’m not sure you’re allowed to—’
McCoy stepped past him and pushed the door open. Cooper was lying in the empty bath, naked but for a pair of bloodstained underpants. McCoy looked at him, looked away quickly, stared at the row of aftershaves on the shelf under the mirror.
‘Don’t you fucking well pass out,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve had enough shite to deal with tonight.’
McCoy nodded, took a breath, looked back at him. Cooper’s blond hair was wet and sticky with blood, jagged slash from his eyebrow disappearing into his scalp. He’d another wound on his shoulder, a gaping six-inch slash seeping blood, and a huge gash going through the thick hair on his stomach. The blood was everywhere: on him, in the bath, on the towels on the floor, the nylon shower curtain. Everywhere.
McCoy tried to breathe slowly, count his breaths. In, out, in, out.
Cooper watched him for a minute or so, shook his head. ‘Better?’
McCoy nodded.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Cooper. He nodded down at the bath. ‘Billy shoved me in here. Didn’t want blood all over his flat.’ He grinned and McCoy realised he was drunk or high on something or, knowing Cooper, probably both. ‘Cheeky bastard. Said his maw would go spare if she had to clear it up.’
McCoy put the lid of the toilet down, sat on it.
‘Purdie’s coming. Supposed to be on his way,’ said Cooper.
‘Why d’you not go to the Royal?’ asked McCoy, trying to find his fags in his coat. Found them, lit two, handed one to Cooper.
He took it, inhaled deeply. ‘Joking, aren’t you? Polis would be all over me like a shot.’ He nodded up at the bathroom shelf. ‘Pass us that, will you?’
McCoy looked up. Between the old razors and a bottle of Matey there was a bottle of Whyte & Mackay’s. He got it off the shelf, took a drink himself before he passed the bottle to Cooper.
‘So what happened?’ he asked. ‘Who’d you annoy this time?’
Cooper took a long swig. When he lifted his arm up to drink McCoy could see the long pink rope of scar disappearing down his back. Sword’ll do that to you.
‘I didnae annoy anyone. Just went for a nice night out.’
‘And?’
‘And the king is dead, that’s what’s happened. No Scobie now. Take someone like that out the equation and all his boys start jostling for position. What better way to set your stall out than by carving me up? Wee warning to keep out of it. No takeovers. Keep it in the family. Stupid bunch of cunts.’
‘Where were you?’ asked McCoy.
‘Started off in the Muscular Arms, then the dancing at Clouds, then some lock-in at a pub in Byres Road. One got me when I came out.’
‘How’d he know you were there?’ asked McCoy.
He shrugged. ‘Someone in one of they places will have telt them, quick phone call. Twenty quid earned.’ He grimaced, raised the bottle to his lips. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’
‘Uncle Kenny’s dead.’
‘What?’ Cooper lowered the bottle.
‘He’s dead,’ said McCoy.
Cooper shook his head. ‘No way. I got you off him in time. You were like a fucking animal, mind you. Never seen—’
‘It wasn’t me that did it.’
Cooper looked at him.
‘It was Connolly. Took him apart, made a right mess of the bastard.’
‘Connolly? Scobie’s Connolly? What the fuck has it got to do with him?’ asked Cooper.
‘Must have seen the same picture you and Joe Brady did. Chances are he was in a home too. Got Wattie trying to find out.’
Cooper lay back in the bath. ‘Fucker should have turned up earlier, saved us the trouble.’ He lifted the bottle. ‘To Connolly, at least the mad cunt did something useful this time.’
; A knock on the door and Jumbo poked his head in. ‘Mr Cooper, the doctor’s here.’
He stood to the side and Purdie was standing there, leather bag in hand. He was forty-odd, thin, reddish hair. Took the cigarette out his mouth.
‘Gents, how are we? Sorry, not familiar with this area, took me a while to find it.’
McCoy nodded at Cooper. ‘I’m fine, it’s him you’re here to see.’
Purdie took in the blood and the slashes and sighed. ‘Been in the wars again, Mr Cooper?’
‘Something like that.’
Purdie moved in, took his coat off, handed it to Jumbo, and knelt down on the fluffy bathmat. He rolled up his shirt-sleeves, revealing burgundy-striped pyjamas underneath, and started examining Cooper’s cuts, sucking the air through his teeth every so often as he did.
‘How much you in for now?’ asked McCoy.
Purdie was rummaging in his bag. ‘Two and a half grand.’
McCoy whistled. ‘You like the horses that much?’
‘Seems so,’ said Purdie. ‘Unfortunately they don’t seem to like me.’ He poked about in his bag, emerged syringe in hand.
Cooper’s face fell. ‘What’s that? I hate fucking jags.’
‘Local anaesthetic. Up to you, Mr Cooper. I would, however, strongly advise it. Going to be grim otherwise. Plus, I don’t need you squirming and moaning while I’m trying to stitch you up.’
Cooper looked at him. ‘Three hundred off the debt.’
Purdie just stood there saying nothing, syringe in hand. Waited.
‘Fuck sake, five hundred. Now get on with it.’
Purdie grinned, moved in, injected Cooper’s shoulder. Cooper was stoic; didn’t flinch but made sure he didn’t look either as Purdie injected his side, hands gripping tighter onto the sides of the bath as the needle went further in.
‘Now, I should be honest, this one might hurt,’ Purdie said as he eased the needle into Cooper’s scalp.
McCoy looked away, not before he caught the horrified grimace on Cooper’s face.
Purdie took the needle out. ‘All done. Now we wait five minutes.’
‘Thank fuck,’ grumbled Cooper. ‘You got anything else in that bag?’
Purdie sat on the edge of the bath, had a rummage about. Held up a red capsule. ‘Take this.’ He handed it over and Cooper swallowed it over with a slug of whisky. He turned to McCoy. ‘You want one?’
‘Why not? he said, putting it in his pocket. ‘Keep it for a rainy day.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it for a while.’
He stepped out the bathroom, almost walked straight into Jumbo. The boy’s face was full of fear.
‘He’s all right, Jumbo. You know what he’s like. Take more than a few slashes to do him in.’
Jumbo nodded, looked relieved. ‘Okay, Mr McCoy.’
McCoy looked at his watch, wasn’t even six o’clock yet. He yawned. ‘Come on, Jumbo, you can make me a cup of coffee. Might wake me up.’
They stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Was cold, just old lino on the floor, no heater, windows dripping with condensation. No sign of Billy or the girls, although the creaks and the giggles from the bedroom next door were a fair indicator of where they were. Jumbo carefully spooned some Mellow Bird’s into a couple of mugs, added hot water and milk, handed it over. They sat down at the table.
McCoy brushed the toast crumbs aside and put his mug down. ‘How’s the reading getting on?’
Jumbo brightened. ‘Good. Do you want to hear?’
McCoy nodded – why not? – and Jumbo got a folded copy of Commando out his back pocket, spread the wee comic out on the kitchen table and started to read. He was slow, a bit painful to listen to, but he was definitely getting better.
‘“I reckon it’s time the Jerries had a warning. You know what to do, mate . . .”’
‘Sounding good, Jumbo.’
He let him read on, mind drifted from the battlefields of Dunkirk. He had to connect Connolly with Uncle Kenny and quick. If he could prove Connolly had a reason for doing what he’d done and with the physical evidence – the BEAST and the rest of it – the investigation would be over before it began.
No reason to think anyone else had anything to do with what happened that night, least of all him or Cooper. And even if Connolly started to blabber when he was caught, say Uncle Kenny was already badly beaten when he got there, hopefully no one was going to believe him. Or care.
‘“British sab . . . sab . . . sabo?”’
McCoy held out his hand and Jumbo passed him the comic. He looked at it. ‘Saboteurs. Don’t worry, Jumbo, that’s a hard one.’
Jumbo nodded, was about to start again when Purdie poked his head round the door.
‘Chaps? That’s me done.’
They followed him back to the bathroom. Cooper was now lying in a warm bubble bath, beatific smile on his face.
‘Matey,’ said Purdie. ‘Saw it on the shelf. My kids love it. I’ve stitched him best I could. Hopefully the one on his forehead won’t scar too much. I’ve also put a bottle of Dettol in the bathwater. Let him lie there for twenty minutes or so, let it do its disinfecting duty. Then get him out the bath and get him into bed. That Seconal is strong stuff, don’t want him slipping under the waves.’
McCoy nodded. ‘Jumbo, make Dr Purdie a cup of tea before he goes.’
‘Much obliged,’ said Purdie. ‘Call me Fraser. Doesn’t seem like the kind of occasion that calls for formality. Until the next time.’
They left and McCoy sat back down on the toilet lid. ‘Better?’ he asked.
‘Aye’ Cooper said. He’d his arms stretched out along the sides of the bath, head above the water. McCoy could see the black stitches running up his side and shoulder, ones on his forehead were much finer, thinner, less likely to leave a scar, he supposed.
Cooper ducked his head under the water then sat up, pushed his wet hair back. ‘Tell you something, McCoy, whatever that pill was, it was fucking good. Should have had one.’
‘Can’t. Have to get to work.’
Cooper shook his head, as if he was trying to clear it, looked at McCoy through half-closed eyes. ‘Those clowns that did this? Scobie’s half-arsed boys? They have no fucking idea what’s about to happen.’
‘That right?’ asked McCoy, reaching for the whisky bottle.
Cooper nodded. ‘Them, Naismith, Collins in the Southside, no fucking idea.’
McCoy decided to humour him, took a swig, wiped his mouth. ‘So what’s gonnae happen then?’
Cooper smiled lazily, tapped the side of his nose. ‘All in good time, Harry, all in good time. But things are gonnae change, change big time. Believe me.’
‘Got a favour to ask you,’ said McCoy.
‘That right?’ said Cooper sleepily. ‘All I ever do is your fucking favours. What is it this time?’
‘Susan wants to interview you. For her uni work. That okay?’
Cooper’s eyes were closing. He laid his head on the side of the bath. ‘Fine by me. As I said, tasty wee bird that you’ve . . .’
McCoy shouted on Jumbo and he appeared round the bathroom door.
‘Better get your boss out the bath before he drowns himself,’ said McCoy.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Harry! It’s half past bloody six!’ said Susan. ‘Get in here before I bloody freeze.’
McCoy held up a bag of rolls and a packet of bacon.
‘What are you doing here at this time anyway?’ she asked, closing the door behind him and pulling her dressing gown tighter round her.
‘Was passing. Thought I’d make you breakfast. Rolls in twenty minutes!’
‘Great. I don’t even like bacon.’
‘Bollocks! Everyone likes bacon rolls,’ said McCoy.
Susan walked into the bathroom shaking her head and McCoy headed for the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later they were sitting in Susan’s kitchen with bacon rolls and mugs of tea in front of them. Place was finally warming up, all three bars of the electri
c fire on along with two of the gas rings. The windows were steamed up, smell of fried bacon, felt cosy. With all the clothes hanging from the pulley above them, it felt like they were in some kind of tent.
‘Wattie was up here looking for you yesterday morning,’ said Susan, cutting her roll in half. ‘Couldn’t get an answer at your door.’
‘Was he?’ said McCoy through a mouthful of roll. ‘I had food poisoning, been puking all night, then I fell asleep. Was exhausted.’
She smiled. ‘And here was me thinking you were out living it up with your fancy woman.’
‘Well, that too. By the way, you still want to talk to Stevie Cooper?’
She nodded, put down her mug. ‘Did you ask him?’
‘Yep. How about this afternoon? He’s in a flat in Dunearn Street. Wee bit under the weather so he’ll be glad to see you. Nothing else to do.’
‘What’s up with him?’
‘Cold, I think, got the sniffles. You want that?’ He pointed at the half roll on her plate.
‘You have it.’ She pushed her plate towards him. He picked it up and shoved the whole thing into his mouth.
‘You could have given me more warning, Harry.’ She stood up. ‘I better get my notes together.’
‘What? Now?’ he managed through his chewing. ‘I thought we might go back to bed for a wee hour.’
‘Did you now?’ she asked. ‘Need to call your fancy woman then. I’ve got an interview to prepare for.’
‘But I made your breakfast!’ he said.
She looked at him. ‘You think you can buy me for a cup of tea and a roll?’
‘I’ll wash up afterwards as well.’
‘Need the bin taken down.’
‘Christ,’ said McCoy. ‘You’re a heartless woman, Susan. Deal.’
She smiled. ‘Now that’s what I call a decent offer.’ She looked at her watch, looked at him. ‘Better be quick, though.’
He stood up, grinned. ‘Always am.’
*
Eight a.m. and the shop was already running at full speed. The death of a senior policeman had consequences, big ones. Suddenly the race to find Connolly had gone up a few gears. Extra staff from Eastern being called in. Budget for any and all overtime authorised. No stone to be unturned. McCoy sat down at his desk and looked round. Thomson was calling in anyone on leave, ticking off a long list. Murray was in his office with the door closed, been in there for an hour already apparently. Meeting with big brass.