February's Son

by Alan Parks

  ‘She staying too?’

  ‘Yep.’

  McCoy didn’t want to say anything to sour the mood. He was enjoying himself as much as Cooper. Had never seen him this happy before, this contented, but it wasn’t what he’d come for and he had a right to know.

  ‘Elaine,’ he said. ‘You heard?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘I told you she was going to end up dead.’

  ‘She’s not dead, Stevie. She’s been lobotomised, but she’s alive.’

  ‘You call that alive?’

  ‘Suppose not.’

  Cooper shrugged. ‘She was dead the minute Connolly got a hold of her.’ He took a swig of his beer; for a second his real feelings showed on his face and then they were gone. Smile came back.

  ‘That wee prick Abrahams goes to Barlinnie tomorrow, I hear,’ said McCoy.

  Cooper nodded. Both of them knowing why McCoy was telling him. Both of them knowing he would be dead by the end of the week.

  Ellie appeared at the door holding a wooden cigar box. She sat down on the bed. ‘You sure about this, honey?’

  ‘Try anything once, that’s my motto.’

  She smiled, opened the box. There was a Zippo lighter in it, a spoon, a length of rubber tubing, a folded wrap and a syringe.

  McCoy looked at Cooper. ‘What are you doing, Stevie? You don’t need to start on that.’

  Ellie raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Stevie, for fuck sake!’

  Cooper stared at him. Although he was in as good a mood as McCoy had ever seen him, he still didn’t like being told what to do. ‘Ellie, can you go and have a bath or something—’

  ‘You mean give you boys some time?’ She stood up. ‘Sure. I’ll go powder my nose.’ She left, cigar box tucked under her arm.

  Cooper waited for her to leave, turned to McCoy. ‘Do you think I’m fucking stupid? It’s a one-off. See what it is I’m selling.’

  ‘You know what you’re selling. Smack. Smack that gets you addicted just like Janey, gobbling off old men for a ten-bob note to buy more then ending up dead in a fucking deserted tenement. What more do you need to know? You want to sell it, then that’s your business, but for fuck sake don’t be stupid enough to start doing it.’

  ‘You saying I’m stupid?’

  McCoy realised he’d better go easy. ‘No, Stevie. I’m not saying you’re stupid, I’m saying you’re about to do a stupid thing. There’s a difference.’

  ‘That right?’ said Cooper, voice becoming colder. ‘And how would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever done anything stupid, is it?’

  McCoy looked at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Cooper shook his head, started on the other bottle.

  ‘Come on, Cooper. What are you saying?’ asked McCoy, starting to get annoyed.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cooper. ‘Nothing you need to know anyway. Just me getting you out of trouble like I always have. Making sure Harry McCoy goes on his merry way thinking the world’s his fucking oyster. You want me to stop doing it, just ask.’

  McCoy stood up, angry now. ‘I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re on about, Cooper. And if you think we’re still back in school and you’re going to protect me from some hard man or Uncle fucking Kenny—’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I know you did, but that was a long time ago—’

  ‘Not that long,’ he said quietly. ‘About four days ago to be exact.’

  McCoy sat back down on the chair, confused. ‘What?’

  Cooper leant over, opened the drawer of the night table, took out a wrap of speed, cut two lines on the back of the room service menu, rolled up a note and snorted one. Held the menu out to McCoy. A test.

  McCoy took it, snorted the line, rubbed at his nostrils, took a swig of his beer.

  ‘Connolly didn’t kill Uncle Kenny,’ said Cooper. ‘You did.’

  *

  Cooper had got out of bed, put some jeans on. McCoy was sitting on one of the couches, noise of the traffic on Hope Street a dim background rumble. Cooper poured a good measure of whisky into two crystal tumblers, set one down in front of McCoy, sat down on the couch opposite him, scratched at the thick hair on his chest.

  ‘What are you saying to me?’ McCoy felt like he was watching himself, the two of them. Couldn’t understand what Cooper was telling him.

  ‘Connolly killed him, it was Connolly,’ he said.

  Cooper shook his head. ‘You just thought he did.’

  McCoy took a gulp of the whisky, burn in his throat as he swallowed. ‘I don’t understand.’ He was looking at Cooper, at his familiar face, at the couch and the whisky tumbler and the curtains. Everything was normal except nothing was now, not any more.

  ‘You don’t remember much about what happened, do you?’ said Cooper.

  McCoy shook his head. ‘I remember I started to hit him and then . . . I don’t know, something happened . . . wasn’t even me any more. All I wanted to do was hit him and hit him and then I remember you shouting, grabbing me, pulling me off him.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you like that,’ said Cooper. ‘Never really seen anyone like that.’ He smiled. ‘Except me, probably. Was like you’d gone, wasn’t you any more, didn’t care about anything but hurting Uncle Kenny.’

  ‘And I did,’ said McCoy. ‘Didn’t I?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘You did. You really did.’

  Ellie walked in, towel wrapped round her body, another round her hair. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. Picked up her handbag from the sideboard, disappeared back into the bedroom.

  Cooper got the bottle from the sideboard, poured some more into their tumblers. Sat back down. ‘By the time I got you off him it was too late. Damage was done.’

  ‘What damage?’

  ‘He was going to die. No question.’

  ‘He was going to what?’ McCoy thought he was going to be sick, faint, do something; was like when he saw blood. He tried to calm himself, started his breathing, took a slug of the whisky.

  ‘I know what men look like just before they die,’ said Cooper. ‘Seen it happen a few times. He was still breathing but it was wrong, sounded wrong. Oxygen wasn’t getting into him. I think you’d smashed his windpipe or something. You stamped on his neck a good few times.’

  ‘What? I did what?’ McCoy put the glass down. Room was fuzzy, Cooper suddenly seemed very far away. He sat back, tried to let it pass.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Cooper.

  McCoy nodded, but he wasn’t. He really wasn’t.

  ‘I had to get you out of there before he died, before you realised what you’d done. If you found out we’d both have been fucked. You wouldn’t have been able to handle it.’

  McCoy knew he was right.

  ‘So I left you in the pub, went back. And I was right. He was dead. Senior police officer dead in a hotel room, they were going to chuck everything at it. No way we were going to get away with it.’

  He picked the big onyx lighter up off the table, lit two fags, handed one to McCoy. He took it with trembling hands. Couldn’t believe what Cooper was telling him. Didn’t want to believe it.

  ‘The only way they weren’t gonnae dig too deep was if they thought they already knew who had done it.’

  ‘Connolly,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Connolly. So I made it look like he’d done it.’

  McCoy was starting to understand. ‘Elaine?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘She’d told me what had happened to Charlie Jackson and her dad, all the details that weren’t in the paper—’

  ‘The writing carved on the body.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘And then you did the rest.’

  ‘Found out Connolly was connected with Uncle Kenny.’

  ‘And now, thanks to Abrahams, Connolly’s in no position to say anything different.’

  ‘How did you know what Abrahams was going to do?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’m no bloody psychic. I was just hoping that if Connolly said he didn’t do it no one would believe him.’ He took anot
her swig from the tumbler, smiled. ‘Long as nothing else happens we’re home free.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Tell me what had happened?’

  Cooper looked at him. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I know what you’re like, McCoy. I shouldn’t have even told you now.’

  ‘Why?’

  He sighed. ‘Because you’ll do what you always do. Worry about it, torture yourself, think about it until it drives you half mental. I hurt people for a living, you don’t. You try and help them, all those fucking jakies that think you’re God’s gift. All the wife-beaters and the nonces and the evil bastards you put away. You try and work out what’s right and what’s wrong with the world, try to do the right thing. Me? I just do what has to be done. Keep moving forwards.’

  McCoy stood up, felt shaky and nauseous, sat back down. Didn’t know what he was doing. Thought he might scream or start crying or just sit there and never move again.

  Cooper looked at him. ‘See? You’re doing it now, aren’t you? Trying to work out how you could have killed someone, trying to work out how you’re going to deal with it.’

  He smashed the tumbler down on the glass table, a long crack appeared on it.

  McCoy jumped.

  Cooper leaned across the table at him. ‘Well, don’t. Uncle Kenny was an utter fucking cunt of a man. Ruined hundreds of boys’ lives just so he could get his fucking kicks. He deserves to be dead. I’m glad you killed him, I’m glad he fucking suffered, I’m glad he knew he was going die alone on the fucking floor of a hotel room. I only wish it had taken longer and you’d hurt him more. So don’t you fucking well start regretting what’s happened. For once in your fucking life just let it go. It’s done. Got me?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘Fucking remember what I’ve just said whenever you start to think about it. Don’t let that cunt get into your head. Don’t let him win.’

  McCoy nodded again.

  ‘Good.’

  Cooper stood up, walked through to the bedroom.

  McCoy sat there. Had no idea what he was going to do. If Crammond got the case he was going to be charged with murder. He’d get fifteen years at least. Fifteen years in Barlinnie. A cop in prison. Everyone knew what that was like.

  No point telling Cooper what might happen. Less he knew, the better. Far as he was concerned it was all fixed. The future was rosy. And then he thought again. Realised Crammond would find out the two of them were there. No way were they going to believe someone like Cooper was an innocent party. They would get him for murder too. Especially the way Murray felt about him.

  He stood up. Went into the bathroom. Washed his face in the basin. Looked at himself in the mirror. He was white. His hands were shaking. He was fucked and Cooper was fucked. All for fucking Uncle Kenny. Where was the justice in that?

  He walked back through, sat down on the couch.

  Cooper reappeared. ‘C’mon through.’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Stevie—’ but he was talking to nobody.

  He got up, went through to the bedroom.

  Ellie was sitting on the bed, open cigar box in front of her. ‘Care to join us?’

  McCoy looked at the cigar box, sat down on the bed. Ellie smiled, undid his cuff button, rolled up his sleeve, tied the rubber tubing tight round his bicep. Watched his arm, veins swelling up.

  Cooper had a tube round his arm as well. Was watching Ellie as she tipped a little of the brown powder into the spoon, added some water and lit the lighter under it. The liquid started to bubble, thicken.

  ‘Not long now, boys,’ she said, smiling. ‘Not long until everything just floats away.’

  And at that moment that was exactly what McCoy wanted, wanted more than anything – the pain to go away. The pain in his body, the pain of what had happened to him, for everything to go away. No more thoughts of Connolly standing over him with a scalpel in his hand. All he wanted was for him and Cooper to be stoned, free. No Crammond. No Murray. No Barlinnie. No murder.

  He stood up, pulled the tube off his arm.

  ‘What?’ Cooper was looking at him.

  ‘Be careful, Stevie. Please. I’ve got to go.’

  He walked out the room, could hear Cooper calling after him.

  ‘McCoy! Fuck’s up with you!’

  FORTY-THREE

  The taxi headed up Crow Road. McCoy looked at his watch. Half nine. Would still be out walking the dog. He didn’t really know what he was doing, what he was going to say. Just knew he had to do something and this was all he could think of.

  He got the driver to drop him off at the corner of Borden Road. He stood for a while smoking, watching the corner. Rain had turned into snow falling down in clumps, dissolving on the wet pavement. He heard Bruno before he saw him. A deep bark and the Labrador was running towards him, tail wagging. He was older now, fatter, but he was still as friendly. Jumping up, trying to lick his face.

  ‘I see you, Bruno, I see you!’ he said, pushing him down.

  A whistle, and the dog ran back along the road. Wasn’t long before Murray appeared. Pipe in one hand, rolled-up dog lead in the other. He stopped for a second and McCoy stepped under the streetlight so he could see it was him.

  Murray bent down, got Bruno on the lead. Walked towards him. ‘Don’t think you’re here to see Bruno, are you?’

  McCoy shook his head.

  ‘Thought not,’ said Murray. ‘What’s up?’

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

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Murray. ‘Better come in then.’

  Ten minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table, Bruno already half asleep in his basket in the corner. Colin and David had grunted hello, gone upstairs to watch the football.

  ‘Where’s Margaret?’ asked McCoy, looking round.

  Murray put a bottle of Bell’s and two glasses down on the table. ‘Away at her sister’s. She’ll no be happy she missed you. You don’t visit enough.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. Least of his sins.

  Murray sat down, poured the drinks. He’d his at-home gear on. Old cords, a Tattersall shirt and the same green cardigan he’d had for donkey’s. Stubble was through on his chin, reddish-grey. McCoy looked at him. Didn’t know where to start, how to start.

  ‘All the way here unannounced on a night like this. Can’t be good news,’ said Murray.

  ‘It’s not,’ said McCoy. ‘I need to ask you a favour, the biggest favour I’ve ever asked anyone in my life.’

  Murray bristled. ‘If you’re here to ask me to lay off bloody Stevie Cooper you can forget it.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’

  Murray looked at him, blinked. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Don’t let Crammond look at the Kenneth Burgess murder,’ said McCoy.

  Murray’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want you to let Crammond look at the case.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because he’ll find out I killed him.’

  There was silence for a second or two. Ticking of the clock on the wall, Bruno snoring.

  ‘You did what?’ said Murray quietly.

  McCoy just hoped he could get through it without crying. Took a breath, started. ‘I killed Burgess. I went to the hotel and I beat him to death, and then I made it look like Connolly had done it.’

  Murray was just looking at him, like he was someone he didn’t even know. ‘What are you talking about? Why would you do that?’

  ‘You remember when you came and got me?’ McCoy asked. ‘At Lochgelly School?’

  Murray nodded, still looked completely bewildered.

  ‘You remember what I was like?’

  ‘They said you hadn’t spoken for a few weeks, couldn’t get you to eat anything. They wanted to put you away, in Woodilee.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t let them,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Margaret was having none of it. Said you were coming here. Mind you, we were half up the bloody wall with you. Nobody knew what was up w
ith you. Doctor said it was hysteria, that it would . . .’ Murray stopped. Had suddenly realised what McCoy was telling him. ‘Kenny Burgess?’

  McCoy nodded, poured himself another shot of whisky, hand shaking. ‘I’d been transferred to Lochgelly School. Stevie was a year older. After a few months he was transferred, so it was just me.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Kenny Burgess, Uncle Kenny, had been paying me visits for weeks.’

  ‘Harry, I . . .’

  McCoy held his hand up. He couldn’t stop. Knew he wouldn’t be able to start again.

  ‘The headmaster told him I was there. He’d seen me at St Andrew’s. Tried it there but it didn’t happen. Stevie stuck to me like a fucking limpet. He was big by then, had already knifed one of the brothers. They were scared of him. But at Lochgelly he wasn’t there any more.’ McCoy looked at Murray, smiled. ‘Just me on my lonesome.’

  Murray was looking at him with a mixture of pity and fear in his eyes.

  ‘Wasn’t just me Uncle Kenny liked to visit. Been doing it for years and years. Must have been hundreds of boys, I think—’

  ‘Harry, why didn’t you tell anyone?’

  And that was when he started to cry. No sobs, no wailing, could just feel the tears running down his cheeks.

  ‘I did. I told Father Mulholland. Told me I was wicked and making it up. Came to visit the next night. “Once the seal is broken,” he said to me, “the vessel has no worth.”’

  Murray was just staring at him, looked close to tears himself.

  McCoy sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, carried on.

  ‘He retired, picture in the paper. Stevie was in the hospital when he saw it, just like Joe Brady did.’

  Murray nodded.

  ‘Stevie and I decided to give him a kicking, revenge. Wasn’t going to change anything but it was something, however small. Wanted to do it for us and all the other boys.’

  Murray stood up, went over to the sink, ran the tap. Turned away. McCoy knew he was crying, didn’t want him to see.