February's Son

by Alan Parks

  But he wasn’t, not by a long shot. Tried to look better than he felt. Smiled.

  Susan was beside him, staring at his face. ‘Okay? Then why are you sitting funny? Why have you got bloody pyjamas on? Harry? Harry?’

  He held his hand up. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’

  He eased his coat off. ‘Gonnae help me get these pyjamas off?’

  She moved in, unbuttoned them and gingerly eased the top over his arms. ‘Oh, Harry.’ She looked like she was about to cry.

  ‘It looks worse than it is. Honest,’ he said, lying.

  He’d a bandage wrapped round his torso, specks of blood showing through it already. Twelve stitches underneath them. A razor slash across his ribs. Would have been a heck of a lot worse if he hadn’t been wearing a jumper under his jacket. They weren’t sure what the ‘punches’ he’d felt were but they weren’t punches, more like hits from a cosh, something heavy. Two cracked ribs and black and blue bruises around his body.

  Susan peered at the bandage. ‘What happened?’

  He was too sore and too tired to explain it tonight. ‘Got hit by a car coming out of Macintosh’s. My fault. Wasn’t looking where I was going. Was just a bump. I’ll be fine in the morning.’

  ‘Christ, Harry, you’re a bloody idiot. You had me worried.’ She stood up. ‘All that and you went to the off sales on the way home?’

  He tried a smile. ‘Knew we’d finished the Red Leb. Needed some kind of anaesthetic.’

  She shook her head. ‘Bed. Now.’

  He was about to protest then realised how tired he was. Bed suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  Took a bit of manoeuvring and a lot of moans and groans to get him in there. Eventually he was in and propped up on the pillows. Susan reappeared with two aspirins, some sleeping pill she’d found and a couple of cans of the beer.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘These might help you sleep.’ Got in beside him.

  He tried not to groan as she snuggled in to his side. He opened the can, covered the top with his mouth as it foamed up and took a drink, swallowed over the pills. ‘You go and see Cooper?’

  ‘Oh yes, had quite the afternoon.’

  ‘How come? He tell you stuff?’

  ‘Told me stuff and had a smile on his face when he did it.’ She looked up him. ‘Do you know what he does?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you’re still friendly with him?’

  McCoy sighed. Had a feeling this was going to happen.

  ‘I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s like a brother—’

  ‘A brother who ruins women’s lives.’

  McCoy reached for his fags on the bedside table. ‘You asked me to speak to someone in the vice game. All info for the dissertation. What did you think he was going to be like?’

  ‘I didn’t think he would be so unrepentant. So fucking proud of himself.’

  ‘You’re a good-looking girl, he’s just showing off.’

  He lit up, could feel the sleeping pill and the beer starting to work. Didn’t let on they’d already dosed him at the hospital.

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ she said. ‘He’s a monster.’

  He shrugged. This wasn’t an argument he wanted to have. Especially not tonight.

  ‘You don’t even care, do you?’ she asked.

  He tried to sound even, take the sting out of things. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour. Among other things, Cooper is a pimp, no better or no worse than the rest of them. Unless the entire vice trade disappears tomorrow there will always be people like him—’

  ‘Men like him.’

  ‘Men like him who’ll run prostitutes. I can’t stop that.’

  ‘Or even try. All boys together, aren’t you?’

  He’d tried, but now he was getting angry. ‘Fuck sake, Susan, give me a break. I’m not the bloody enemy here.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  There was silence for a minute. He lay back on the pillows. ‘Look, I’m going to go to sleep. I’m tired, and I’m in pain. I think if we keep going we’ll both say things we don’t really mean. But if you really think I’m the enemy then you’re wrong.’

  He woke up a couple of hours later. Side was too sore to really sleep. Rain battering against the window. He turned over in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and Susan was looking at him.

  ‘You’re awake,’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘You’re not the enemy, Harry. I’m sorry.’

  She cuddled into him and laid her head on his chest. He closed his eyes. Pretended to go back to sleep.

  My judgement is going fast.

  like my sight

  like my control

  i can hear voice voices

  voices that hate me

  the voice of my mum and the voice of my dad inside my head my

  head that hurts all the time now

  i should have waited. time is not mine to control

  done him outside.

  in the street

  in an alley

  alone

  i am sick and fat with dead material

  idontwantoliv e this lif

  timeis runnn nnnning out.

  one day eft.

  justenoughtime

  18th February 1973

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  McCoy recognised him by the cut of his expensive coat. Tall figure standing outside the Terminus Cafe looking a bit lost. Didn’t suppose Lambhill was his normal habitat on a Saturday morning. Or any other morning come to that. He crossed the road, side hurting like fuck, and headed towards him.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be here,’ said McCoy as he approached.

  ‘No. Wasn’t sure whether to come.’ Lomax peered at his face. ‘Been in the wars, Mr McCoy?’

  McCoy rubbed at his stitches. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You heard, I suppose?’ asked Lomax.

  McCoy nodded. ‘Heard this morning. Elaine gave you the big E.’

  Lomax looked pained. ‘Not quite the way I’d put it but accurate enough. “Services no longer required.”’ He looked like he still couldn’t believe it had happened. ‘Still, I did work for her father for almost twenty years. Felt like I should show my face.’

  McCoy pointed. ‘Mourners are going in across the road.’

  They watched as the funeral cars made their slow way down the hill. A long line of shiny black Daimler and Jaguar limousines stopping the traffic on Balmore Road. The crowd outside St Agnes’ Chapel had been getting bigger since McCoy had arrived a couple of hours earlier. People come to pay their respects to the great man, curious passers-by, the press, and of course the police.

  Lomax wiped snowflakes off the shoulders of his coat. ‘So they are. I should get in soon. You joining us?’

  ‘Think I’ll just spectate from over here,’ said McCoy.

  Elaine Scobie hadn’t been shy about putting her hand in her pocket. Three mourners in top hats led the cortège, heads bowed. Glass-sided carriage pulled by six black horses following behind. Horses snorting and stamping, breathing big clouds in the cold air, black feather plumes stuck in their bridles.

  Scobie’s coffin was almost obscured by all the flowers covering it. Huge mound of white lilies and roses. A sign with DADDY spelled out in floral letters ran the length of the glass panel. If McCoy was a betting man there’d be a wreath in there with a note saying ‘From the Twins’ on it as well.

  Lomax said goodbye and hurried across the road to the chapel entrance and disappeared into the crowd of black coats and black umbrellas held up against the falling snow. McCoy scanned the crowd. Didn’t know what he was expecting. Connolly to be standing there, black armband on and an ‘Arrest Me’ sign around his neck? He chucked his empty paper cup of rotten tea into the wire bin at the bus stop and walked up towards where Murray had positioned himself outside Lambhill Police Station.

  ‘Nice of him to get buried here,’ McCoy said, pointin
g at the chapel directly across the road. ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘What’s this I hear about last night?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Wattie tell you?’ asked McCoy.

  Murray nodded. ‘The bare bones. You sure it was Connolly?’

  ‘Think so. Only got a glimpse, but who else with a bald head is going to attack me in the toilet of Macintosh’s? Besides, he said I was lucky she only spat in my face.’

  ‘How come he knew that?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t in the hospital canteen as far as I could see. Only really leaves one option.’

  ‘Elaine told him.’

  McCoy shrugged. ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Christ, she’s a piece of bloody work. You’re lucky you got away without any more damage.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ said McCoy. ‘Whole thing was a rush, all a bit of a mess. Jumping me in the toilets of the pub? Not the greatest idea. Not like him. Everything else he’s done has been precise, organised. Last night just feels like he wasn’t thinking properly.’

  ‘Maybe. Let’s hope so. How’s the old boy?’

  ‘Fine apart from the scar he’s going to have. Wife nearly had a heart attack.’

  ‘Not bloody surprised.’ Murray was craning his head, trying to see up to the roof, sheepskin jacket straining. ‘Is that wee prick Andy up on there?’

  McCoy looked up at the two-storey police station behind him. Couldn’t see much of anything. ‘Should be. Wattie told him enough times.’

  ‘Wattie!’ shouted Murray.

  Wattie appeared from the station doorway as if by magic. Looked about ten times better than McCoy did in his suit and black Crombie, even had a black armband on. ‘Sir?’

  ‘That clown up there, is he?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Yep. Just left him. Tripod, bags of film, big long lens. Whole kit and caboodle. All right, McCoy?’

  ‘Knows what he’s doing?’ asked Murray.

  Wattie recited, ‘“Mourners, crowd, anyone lurking about. Cover them all. Get clear face shots.” He’s been told fifty times.’

  ‘He better be ready,’ said McCoy. ‘Show’s about to begin.’

  The lead Daimler had drawn up at the chapel entrance. The priest opened the door and Elaine Scobie stepped out. Every inch the chief mourner in a long fitted black coat, hat with veil piled on top of it. Shiny black high heels adding a touch of sombre sexiness. The crowd parted to let her through; men took their hats off, ladies looked down respectfully.

  She stopped at the entrance, looked back at the crowd for a minute, flashbulbs going off, lowered the veil over her immaculately made-up face and stepped into the chapel. You had to hand it to her, she knew how to make an entrance as well as an exit.

  They watched the limousines slowly empty. Relatives, associates, gangland faces.

  ‘See your girlfriend’s here,’ said McCoy as Mary stepped out the second limo. She looked almost normal for once: black fur coat and hat, make-up just this side of panto slightly undermining her serious demeanour.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Wattie. ‘By the way, you better stay out her way, said you owed her some exclusive.’

  ‘Fuck! I forgot about that.’

  The crowd of photographers rushed towards a car, flashbulbs going, as Frankie Vaughan stepped out, all teeth and hair and skinny black suit. The real villains were keeping well out the way, didn’t need their faces in the paper. They were gathered at the back, Crombies and trilbies to a man, faces down. All except one.

  After twenty years of jeans it was the second time he’d seen Stevie Cooper in a suit in a couple of days. Looked like a new one as well. Dark blue, black tie, snow-white shirt. He was standing tall, making sure everyone knew he was here, Billy Weir by his side. A few slashes weren’t going to stop him. Here to let all the contenders to Scobie’s throne know that he was still very much in the game.

  ‘You really think Connolly will show his face?’ asked McCoy. ‘He’d have to be mad.’

  Murray shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. Worth a try. Got men up and down the road to the cemetery, couple in the chapel. Have to try and get a few into Mallon’s afterwards.’

  ‘That where the big do is then? Mallon’s? No exactly Ferrari’s, is it?’

  ‘Scobie grew up round here, maybe that’s why. Old times’ sake.’

  ‘I’m going to walk up to the cemetery, have a look around while they’re all in there,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Murray. ‘You get a whiff of Connolly, you call it in. Clear?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Don’t worry.’ He held up the walkie-talkie he’d been given and had no idea how to work and started walking.

  Lambhill Cemetery was only ten minutes up the hill. Stood right on the edge of the city, fields and then the Campsie Hills beyond. Wind was bitter, coming in from the north, driving the snow, chilling McCoy right through. He walked through the big stone archway at the entrance, nodded at some uniform he half recognised who pointed off to the left.

  Didn’t have to walk far before he saw the black hole of the grave in the field of white, diggers in donkey jackets and woolly scarves standing by the tarpaulin-covered earth that was about to be returned from whence it came. He wandered amongst the graves, finally found a big mausoleum thing that he could shelter behind. He leant against the eulogy to Samuel Sneddon 1856–1912, lit up a cigarette and tried to ignore the throbbing in his side.

  He looked around, just rows of graves, few wind-blasted trees. Knowing Connolly, if he was here there would be no way McCoy would see him. Murray seemed to be pinning a lot on this, with polis all the way up the hill, Andy and his pictures. Pressure must be getting to him. Papers would be full of it again tomorrow, funeral kicking it all up again. A fat seagull landed on a nearby grave, squawked at him. He looked around again. Nowhere here for Connolly to be. Well, at least not as far as he could see.

  The gravediggers heard the engines first, looked up. The line of limos and cars was inching its way up the hill towards the graveyard. McCoy flicked the last of his cigarette away and started walking down towards the gate, thought he’d leave them to it and have a look round Mallon’s while they buried him. Maybe a whisky or two to try and get the warmth back into his bones.

  He stood back from the road and took off his hat as the first limo approached. Elaine was sitting on his side, looking out the window. She took her sunglasses off as the car drew near. Before he knew it he’d bowed his head and crossed himself. Autopilot. When he looked back up she was looking back at him. Could have sworn she had a half-smile on her lips. Did she know what had happened to him last night? Did she ask him to do it?

  The rest of the cars followed. He couldn’t help smiling when Mary threw him a vicky as her car passed, mouthed ‘You’re fucking dead, McCoy’.

  Dignified as always.

  Mallon’s was just along from the chapel. A strange-looking building. It had a round tower at the front covered in white pebbledash, looked a bit like a wee lighthouse. Behind it was a red-brick building that held the bar, lounge and function suite. It did well out of weddings, funerals and the normal evening trade. Was always packed on a Friday and Saturday night, people getting up to sing or tell some jokes.

  He pulled the big front door open and walked in. Was immediately hit by a wave of heat and the smell of sausage rolls and egg sandwiches. Buffet was being laid out by two young girls in waitress uniforms. Sandwiches, pies and slices of cake all being arranged on big trestle tables sitting adjacent to the bar.

  ‘Christ, no seen you in here for a while,’ said the bartender as McCoy walked up to the bar. ‘You have an argument with a brick wall?’

  ‘Closer than you’ll ever know, Bobsy, closer than you’ll ever know. You all right?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘As I’ll ever be. You want a pint?’ he asked, moving towards the pumps.

  ‘Not today,’ said McCoy, peeling off his soaking coat and scarf and hanging them on the back of a chair. ‘I’m fucking freezing and I’m dying for a pish. Double Bell’s
and where is it again?’

  Bobsy pointed over to a door in the corner and moved over to the optics. ‘You’re paying for this, you know!’ he shouted after him.

  ‘Aye, in your dreams,’ said McCoy, smiling as he pushed the toilet door open. He stopped, smile frozen on his face. ‘Christ,’ he said under his breath. ‘Fucking hell . . .’

  *

  The three of them stood there – Murray, McCoy and Thomson – just looking, trying to take it all in.

  The gents’ toilets looked like the inside of an abattoir. The floor was slick with blood, was even in the urinal trough. Was everywhere. The long mirror across the row of sinks had been smashed, half of it on the floor, half still clinging to the wall in long shards. A black spray-painted message was written along what was left of it.

  PROMISES MADE. IT’S TIME.

  McCoy took a hanky out his pocket, held it over his mouth; smell of the blood making him feel sick. ‘Bastard must have been in and out quick. Staff cleaned it twenty minutes ago.’

  Wattie opened the swing door of the gents’, walked in, started coughing.

  ‘Fuck sake, you weren’t joking, were you?’ he said, spitting on the floor. ‘Can even taste it in my mouth.’

  ‘You held them at the cemetery?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Aye. No happy about it, though. Three poor uniforms lined up under the arch blocking the way are getting pelters. Family want to know what’s going on. Think we’re just noising them up for the sake of it.’

  ‘Gonnae have to move it, sir,’ said McCoy. ‘They can’t have the reception here. That mad bastard could be somewhere in here waiting for them. It’s too dangerous.’

  Murray was tapping the pipe against his teeth. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to tell them?’

  ‘Gas leak? Pipes frozen?’ suggested McCoy.

  Wattie coughed again, held up his hand. ‘Sorry, right in my bloody throat. I spoke to The Inn up the road. They’ll take them, got a function suite about the size of this one. Just move all the sandwiches and stuff up there. Pub’s a pub.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Murray. ‘Tell them it’s a burst pipe and move it there. Better get going.’