Old Friends and New Enemies

by Owen Mullen

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘Really? He will be disappointed.’

  ‘When was he in last?’

  ‘Not sure, a month, five weeks, something like that.’

  ‘And I know this guy?’

  I laughed. ‘No sweat. I won’t say a word.’

  He moved away to serve another customer. He’d be back, I’d bet money on it.

  Everyone on the planet is the same – so long as we’re in the story we’re riveted. Norman was no exception. He edged down the bar ‘til he got to me.

  ‘Describe this friend. What does he do in Spain?’

  ‘Real estate. Very successful, so he says.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m losing it, too many drugs.’

  ‘Always cracking jokes, tons of personality. Ian Selkirk. Been coming here off and on.’

  Norman signalled to a guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans. ‘Derrick, you see me with anybody you didn’t recognise recently? A pal of his,’ he waved his thumb at me, ‘reckons he knows me. Don’t remember a thing about him.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Ian. Mean anything?’

  ‘A Tommy, yeah. A couple of Davids, sure. Easier if you weren’t such a tart, Norrie, even you can’t keep up with it. What chance do I have?’

  I put in my tuppence worth. ‘He was only in Scotland a few days. Stayed out at Loch Lomond.’

  Norman scratched his ear. ‘You’ve got me at it now. Won’t be able to sleep for thinking about it. Hate that.’

  Derrick said, ‘Try it sober next time. It’s nearly as good.’

  I watched the barman do my work for me, talking to this one and that, enjoying the notion he couldn’t recall some sexual episode with a partner from abroad. He found out what I would’ve found out in a quarter of the time. Nothing. Ian Selkirk hadn’t been near the Cumberland Arms.

  I headed towards Central Station. Under the bridge a beggar with sad eyes and a haggard face held out his hand. In broken English he told me he was starving. I gave him a big photograph of the queen. Further along three youths shouted an invitation to violence. Gratuitous agro. A mountain of uncollected rubbish lay by the side of the road near bins that hadn’t been emptied in weeks. This part of town was dirty and dangerous.

  The Polo Lounge was a different animal from the Cumberland; a club for people born to party. I tried the same stunt with the fresh-faced young man who served me. His name tag helped: Colin. Maybe Colin was more secure than Norrie because he wasn’t interested. I hung around without connecting with anyone. When I’d had a bellyful of sympathetic looks for being a sad old bastard I drank up and left.

  It was still early. Going home wasn’t an option. I couldn’t face it, so I walked. My mood hadn’t lifted from the afternoon; if anything I felt worse. For a month the mystery of Ian Selkirk’s murder had refused to reveal itself. I still wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done, for Christ’s sake. Fiona was in hiding, depending on me to resolve the nightmare we were living. Images I was powerless to resist bombarded my tired brain. At one point I thought I heard footsteps: Rafferty’s goons come for me at last? I stopped. The footsteps stopped too. My mind was running wild, I’d spooked myself, it was an echo. On another day I might have laughed. Not tonight.

  I’d quit the Polo Lounge around eleven fifteen. Now it was twelve thirty. I must have walked in circles because I was in High Street. The car was miles away.

  Glasgow was dark and deserted. At the bottom of the hill the Tron clock chimed the half hour. There was no one to hear it but me.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  Cecelia McNeil’s body language was stiff with the same kind of hostility I had seen the day the piano teacher showed up uninvited. No tea this time. Maybe she’d thought about our conversation in NYB, recalled my efforts and was angry again. I was after what I hadn’t had so far: the truth.

  There was an edge to her voice. ‘Why do you want to talk to me, Mr Cameron. Is there a development?’

  ‘Of a kind, Mrs McNeil. I bumped into George Lang. Told him I was working for you. When I asked about Christopher he couldn’t get away quick enough. Almost ran. Any idea why he’d react like that?’

  ‘George is a very private man.’ Her reply had a hollow ring. ‘I’m not surprised he wouldn’t discuss my son. As far as he’s concerned you’re a stranger.’

  ‘Tell me about Christopher.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. He doesn’t come into this.’

  ‘But he does. He took his life after a fight with his father. I’ve asked you before what the argument was about. Must’ve been pretty serious.’

  She wouldn’t look at me. ‘I really don’t remember. It seems like a hundred years ago.’

  ‘How did it start? Did Christopher say something? Or was it Stephen?’

  She sighed and trembled. ‘I’ve no memory of how it began. One minute things were all right – the next... Christopher stormed upstairs. Stephen got into the car and drove away.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  She made a bleak attempt at a laugh. ‘Me? I was caught in the middle as usual. It was always the same.’

  ‘What’s George Lang done to make you dislike him so much?’

  She pulled herself together. ‘You’re wrong. George is okay.’

  ‘Didn’t look like it the time he was here.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d prefer if you would go, Mr Cameron. These questions are very upsetting, and I’ve been upset enough.’

  ‘I’m not trying to upset you, Mrs McNeil, believe me. I’m asking what the row was about. Difficult to credit you can’t remember.’

  ‘Well I can’t. Please leave.’

  I stood on the steps, still short of an answer to my question, but accepting I wasn’t going to get it. The sobbing coming from the other side of the door made me wish I had listened to my father; since I found Ian Selkirk’s body at the mortuary this wasn’t a job I fancied anymore.

  I dropped in at the flat first. No sign of Patrick. It was possible he and Gail had put their differences behind them and become a family again. Andrew Geddes was due to come through with the information about Celtic Park sometime today and Pat Logue was a genius at getting things, but it took time. At NYB Jackie Mallon’s face told me all wasn’t well.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She nodded. ‘Over there.’ Patrick sat at the bar, his head on the counter, a half full pint in front of him, as drunk as I’d ever seen.

  ‘How did he get in that state?’

  ‘He seemed fine when he came in. You know Pat, usually he can down enough to sink a battleship and still look okay. One minute he was fine, the next blotto. Didn’t have the heart to toss him out.’

  ‘I’ll take him to my place; he’s crashing there anyway.’

  She helped me manhandle him to the car. ‘When Andrew Geddes appears tell him I won’t be long.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you, he weighs a ton?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Patrick snored all the way to Cleveden Drive. It took twenty minutes to get him inside. I dumped him on the couch and collapsed into the armchair opposite. When I recovered I dragged a quilt off a bed and threw it over him. Back at NYB Jackie hurried over. ‘Okay, Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s sleeping it off. Any sign of Andrew?’

  ‘Hasn’t been in yet.’

  ‘I’ll be in the office. Send him up.’

  Pat Logue was supposed to be going to the El Cid. I had intended spending the evening trawling more gay bars. Change of plan. I couldn’t be two places at once and the darts teams only played on Tuesdays. Finding McNeil on his favourite double wasn’t such a long shot. The chat with Patrick had exposed a flawed assumption.

  Stephen McNeil wasn’t hiding.

  I wondered if Stephen blamed Cecelia for Christopher’s death.

  Andrew picked that moment to put his head round the door. ‘Got what you need,’ he said and sa
t down. ‘Jock Stein Stand. The Celtic end. 123. G19 and 20. Good enough?’

  ‘Better than that. I owe you one, Andrew.’

  ‘Make it dinner for two. Sandra loved it here.’

  ‘Book it. On me.’

  He stood. ‘Seen Logue?’

  I lied. ‘Not today. What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing I can prove. They’ve just discovered a container robbery on the docks. Happened weeks ago. Electrical goods. Stereos, MP players, televisions. Top of the range. All gone.’

  ‘Doubt he had anything to do with it, Andrew. Different division.’

  ‘Your pal feeds off the bigger rogues. Got to get his supply from somewhere. Kick his granny if the price was right.’

  Harsh.

  ‘He’s a dodgy bastard, surprised you have anything to do with him.’

  If he only knew.

  ‘I’m expecting a fax from the Spanish law about Emil Rocha. Get you a copy when it arrives.’

  ‘Appreciate it. Sort your reservation. I’ll put Jackie in the picture.’

  I went back to the flat to make certain Patrick was okay. I needn’t have bothered; he hadn’t moved an inch. The empty space where the flat screen TV had been reminded me of Andrew’s words:

  a dodgy bastard, surprised you have anything to do with him

  When I left, the dodgy bastard was still unconscious.

  The El Cid was busy. A petite woman, hard-faced, too much make up and big tits, gave me a breezy hello.

  I said, ‘They’re all here tonight. What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Semi-final. Grudge match. The Vault put us out last year.’

  Both teams had their supporters, probably guys who were quite good, just not good enough. A man in corduroy trousers and a check shirt readied himself to throw. His eyes were cold, like a gunslinger in a cowboy movie and his belly rolled over his belt. He took his time, measuring the distance, and let fly straight into the double. Somebody shouted ‘Played!’ The marker wiped the blackboard clean. His mates whooped. He took their appreciation in his stride.

  The standard was high – a game was over in minutes – it took thousands of hours of practice to get that good. The players added, subtracted and multiplied in their heads, weighing the options each new score presented, rarely pausing to consider the next throw. I couldn’t keep up. The surly foreman from Newlands was in the thick of it, representing the pub. He was the only one I recognised.

  The Vault won game after game. I ordered another pint and spoke to the barmaid.

  ‘You’re getting hammered. Is this your strongest team?’

  ‘No. We’ve lost one of our best players. The guy standing in isn’t as good.’

  ‘Run off with another woman, has he?’

  She gave me a funny look. ‘Don’t let Carol hear you say that.’

  ‘Is Carol the wife or the girlfriend?’

  ‘Girlfriend. She’s devastated. Serves her right for trusting a man.’

  Bullseye. There was a woman or at least there had been. A roar went up from the other end of the bar; the El Cid had pulled one back. The marker cleared the board, ready to begin again. Stephen McNeil had done the same, abandoned everything, even his bit on the side.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re not all bad.’

  ‘Yeah? Have I just been unlucky then?’

  ‘Must be, it’s tainted your judgement. Would this Carol go for somebody like me? What d’you think?’

  She leaned across, her breasts rested on the counter, the smile turned off as easily as a light switch. Flowery perfume mixed with cigarettes and gin.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘you seem like a nice guy but you’re a stranger. That accent tells me you’re not from round here. And for a stranger you ask too many questions, that’s what I think. Now shut it and watch the fucking darts.’

  Patrick was awake when I got back, nursing a can of beer, staring at the wall. There were red marks on his cheek. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. I made myself coffee and sat down next to him. I didn’t offer him any.

  He said, ‘Did you bring me here?’

  ‘Yeah, this afternoon. You passed out in NYB.’

  ‘Last I remember I was in Glasgow Green with a bottle of Bell’s. Definitely not recommended.’

  ‘Thought you were with Gail?’

  ‘I was. She threw me out. Literally.’

  ‘She’ll be worried sick about Liam.’

  ‘No, Liam’ll be fine. He’s too young for jail. She’s scared this is the start. Can see herself a couple of years down the line takin’ the bus to Barlinnie every week.’

  ‘Could be the best thing that’s happened to him. Just the fright he needs.’

  ‘Don’t think so, Charlie. He’s not bothered. Caught him on the phone boastin’ to his pals. Gail heard him too. That was when she attacked me. Went mental.’ He fingered the scratches. ‘She blames me for everythin’. No way back this time. Gone too far.’

  ‘Let the dust settle. Everything looks better in daylight.’

  He touched the red welts. ‘This won’t.’

  Pat Logue had to work out his life by himself. I said, ‘Gail’s in a bad place. She’s terrified of losing her son and her marriage is falling apart. Could be time for a rethink, Patrick.’

  He didn’t respond. At the door I stopped. I had my own fear going on. ‘You still up for this Rafferty business? I have to be sure.’

  ‘I promised to help. That promise stands. Whatever happens to Gail and me I’m there. Depend on it.’

  I hoped he was as good as his word. His wife wasn’t the only one who needed him to deliver.

  Twenty-Nine

  On Wednesday I parked outside NYB and fed coins into a meter. The weather was better today, fresh and clear. Not sunny, not yet. The guy selling the Big Issue was smack dab between me and my destination. I stuck a hand in my pocket looking for money; I’d given the last of it to Glasgow City Council Road Traffic Department. He seemed to sense what was coming and kept his head down, shifting his weight from one foot to another in a rocking motion; preparing himself. The greatcoat he wore was too big for him – the same one I remembered from before Christmas when a hard frost lay on the pavement and mounds of dirty-white snow piled against the kerb. He’d been a sorry sight that day; shivering, almost dancing to stay warm, fire red cheeks pumping his breath out in clouds to condense and fade in the icy air. I’d had a word with Jackie, but there was no need, soup and rolls were on their way. I added a twenty pound note. We could all feel better.

  That was forgotten, he’d taken against me. His face was animated; he waved an accusatory hand and shouted. ‘“For a’ that an’ a’ that, it’s coming yet for a’ that. That man to man the world o’er, shall brithers be for a’ that!”’

  Passers-by gave both of us a second glance, wondering as I did, what was going on. I quickened my step taking me past him. Jackie and Alex were standing outside NYB. At the door. The red door.

  I said, ‘Why do you suddenly have a red door, Jackie?’

  ‘For luck, Charlie. A red door attracts good fortune.’

  Alex said, ‘Don’t you think we should be discussing this kind of thing, Jackie?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘I mean before.’

  Only fight the battles you can win.

  I interrupted. ‘The Big Issue guy, what’s the story?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He’s got a thing about me. Keeps quoting Burns. Can’t think what I’ve done to upset him.’

  ‘Maybe he sees you as an establishment figure. The enemy.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Drugs then.’

  ‘Him or me?’

  I said hello to a couple of regulars; it was still a bit early for Andrew or Patrick. At a table against the wall two pug-ugly men stared at me, coffees untouched in front of them. The one on the left was familiar; the skinhead I’d seen in Cottier’s the night of the pub crawl. We had moved to a new level; the game of hide and seek was over
. Anger burned my neck. These goons had dogged me since the crematorium – before that for all I knew. Fiona and I were no part of whatever Ian had done. It was time to say that and be heard. Resentment gave me courage. I started towards them. Halfway across the doors flew open. The Big Issue seller was shouting at me again. ‘The car! The car’s on fire!’

  Seconds went by while I tried to make sense of what he was saying.

  The car? Whose car?

  Then I ran.

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  People gathered on the pavements; it wasn’t every day you saw somebody’s car going up in smoke. One of the windows was broken; flames rose to the sky from inside. There was nothing to do except watch.

  On the street, traffic stopped; progress was impossible. The police cordoned the street off in both directions and the fire brigade appeared. Thick jets of water brought the inferno under control in a matter of minutes but the car was a blackened shell. I had stumbled into a bad dream. An officer took my statement and interviewed the principal witness, the Big Issue guy. The whole of NYB stood amazed at the drama on their doorstep. Jackie squeezed through the crowd and tried to console me. ‘It’s only a motor, Charlie. It’s only stuff.’ She took pictures on her phone. ‘Insurance,’ she said.

  Rafferty’s thugs were at my elbow. One of them spoke without looking at me.

  ‘A message from Jimmy. You’ve got one more week.’

  I moved towards him but Jackie got between us. He stepped back and laughed.

  ‘Next time your car goes up you’ll be in it.’

  * * *

  -------

  * * *

  One week, ten weeks, it made no difference. I still hadn’t a clue. I wanted to beg Rafferty’s heavies not to hurt Fiona, to let us get on with our lives; the words stuck in my throat. Jackie took my hand and led me to NYB.

  Andrew Geddes’s advice was to tell Platt what I knew, it never felt right. Now holding back didn’t seem such a good idea. I didn’t like the policeman or trust him, but at least he was on our side.