Mr Wallace was dying. He knew it now. He could feel death's grimy claws wrapping themselves around him and pulling him down into the grave. Every day the grip was a bit tighter, the grave a little closer.
He did not have long to go.
The doctor, in a moment of absolute honesty, had suggested a week at most. The cancer was moving faster than they had expected.
But Mr Wallace was not going to roll over and die yet. He still had a job to finish, and today he would accomplish his task. Tomorrow may be too late.
Mr Wallace had made a promise to himself to remove Big Wee Rab's gang from the estate and by tonight, all going well, he would have succeeded in his quest.
Apart from Big Wee Rab there was only one other gang member left: Davie was the quietest and most innocent of them all, but the word on the street was that under the influence of the 'Boys from Porty' he had come out of his shell. When part of Big Wee Rab's team he had always been in the background, never really actively participating in much. In fact, although he was part of Rab's gang, Davie had probably never really done anything wrong. Until now. Davie had changed.
People had recently seen him selling drugs near the shops, in full view of everyone, and he didn't seem to care.
And when Davie wasn't on the street, he was hanging out in his 'office', one of the empty flats on the north of the estate.
Incredibly, he didn't seem to be scared. The rest of his team had been killed, but Davie was not hiding like the others had, apparently because he had been promised the protection of the Porty Boys. People had been told, and then encouraged to spread the word: "Mess with Davie, and the Porty Team will mess with you." The meaning was all too clear.
What the Porty Boys didn't know however, was that Mr Wallace had nothing to lose.
Mr Wallace looked at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible.
He knew that for a man of his age in his condition, what he was about to do was really pushing it, but Mr Wallace had never been so motivated in his life to accomplish any task he had set for himself, and he knew that if you really want to do something, it's amazing what anyone can achieve.
Davie was young and fit. Wallace was slow and dying. But, as with all good battle plans, the element of surprise was still on his side.
No one would suspect Mr Wallace of anything. After all, he was just an old fool with a bad cough.
Mr Wallace picked up his phone and dialled the taxi. It would be here in five minutes.
As he waited, he sat in his favourite armchair, and thought again about Big Wee Rab. And then about Robert. In fact, he had spent the whole day thinking about them: two very different people.
It was while he was waiting for the taxi to arrive that he finally realised that he had actually failed in his mission to kill Big Wee Rab: Big Wee Rab was already dead. Robert had done that job for him. Big Wee Rab was gone, and Robert had replaced him.
Life was full of surprises. People were full of surprises, some more than others.
The door bell rang. His taxi was waiting.
"Time to go, " Mr Wallace said to himself. "Time to surprise Davie."
.
--------------------
.
As instructed, Mat parked his rental car near the impressive ruins of the castle of Craigmillar, on the hill overlooking the Craigmillar Estate. According to his map, it was only a short walk across the field to the back of the Craigmillar Estate.
He'd typed in the postcode of the meet point and his Smartphone told him exactly where he was now, and where he had to be in fifteen minutes. He had plenty of time.
Time enough to take a few photographs of a Scottish Castle on his phone. Unfortunately, if things went well, he'd be out of the country soon, and apart from Edinburgh Castle, this would be the only other castle he would see!
He took a few photographs, checked that they were good enough and then turned around and started walking down the hill and across the field.
Using the map on his Smartphone he could already see where the derelict block of flats was on the edge of the estate. As the man on the phone had said when they made the arrangements, it had a large mobile phone mast on its roof, making it easy to pinpoint from the other three just like it.
As Mat walked towards the building he recognised the familiar signs of urban decay which blighted this part of the Craigmillar estate and had already ravaged parts of almost every American city.
Unemployment, poverty, drugs and despair were on the rise almost everywhere his business took him: nowhere was exempt. Whenever he encountered it, Mat's resolve to rise above the filth and squalor increased, and he used it to harden his will, to focus his attention, and to complete whatever assignment he was on, to the best of his ability.
Mat was not a politician. He did not form opinions about the work he conducted or get involved in discussions of morality. He provided a service that others would, if he did not. Mat was pragmatic. He knew that the people who were assigned to die would still die, whether or not it was his hand that delivered their deaths. Mat saw no sense in letting others profit while he debated ethics. Instead he pulled the trigger when asked, took the money, and enjoyed his life to the best of his ability. And why not?
As Mat walked across the field, coming close now to the entrance to the building, he looked up at the small mountain behind the estate, and admired its shape and form: from where he stood, its outline reminded him of a lion lying down on the ground, surveying its territory and keeping an eye out for its prey.
Mat was tempted to climb it after he had picked up his gun. From the top he would command an incredible view of the countryside and the sea. He could get some good snapshots from the top for his travel album.
.
He had arrived at the door to the tenement, and looking quickly around him to make sure he was not being observed, he stepped inside. As soon as he entered the stairwell he was accosted by the smell of urine, and Mat covered his nose with his hands.
He hurried up three flights of stairs to the top of the stairwell, and came to a door with the letters 'BFP' daubed in blue paint on the outside. Mat knocked four times, paused, knocked twice more, paused, and then knocked six times more.
A moment later the door was opened.
An overpowering stench of marijuana wafted out of the apartment, and a youth in a dark hoodie said, "Yeah?"
No 'hello' or 'How can I help you, my kind sir?', just 'yeah?'
"Hi, …A friend of mine suggested I might be able to find something here that I was looking for?"
"Which friend?"
The question stumped Mat. He didn't know the name of the man who had answered the phone and given him directions.
"I don't know. He said to be here at 5 p.m., and the person who lived here would have something for me."
The youth looked at his watch.
"It isnie 5 p.m. yet. It's five to five."
"I'm early."
"Come back in five minutes then..." and the young man slammed the door on him.
Mat saw red. What the hell was going on! Was this a wind up?
He thumped on the door, banging as loud as he could. Nobody came.
Mat looked at his watch. 4.58 p.m. It was definitely the right place. All the other doors had been burst open, or were hanging off their hinges, the apartments inside littered with rubbish and debris. This was the only apartment that seemed to be habitable.
It was 5 p.m.
He knocked on the door.
The door opened.
"Yeah?"
"It's 5 p.m. Do you have something for me or not?"
"I might have. Who the fuck are you man, and what are you looking for?"
"I am an American tourist. I was sent here by your boss. Do you have something for me or not?"
"Listen man, I dinnie ken who ye are? Maybe you're the police? Like, how am I meant to ken? So, ye tell me 'xactly what ye want, an' I'll tell ye if I've got it, like? Ye ken?"
Mat stood on the doorstep, getting progressive
ly more angry. The man in front of him was obviously both high and very stupid. And also an amateur playing with the big boys.
"Listen pal, I gave the password knock. You answered it. You know I was sent here..."
"Fuck, sorry pal, I forgot you gave the password knock. Yeah, man, you did...but, still, what the fuck do you want? "
"I want to defend myself. I'm an American. I have to the right to bear arms. I'm looking for ..."
The idiot at the door broke down laughing.
"If ye wannie have bare arms, why dinnie ye take off your shirt? Or wear a T-shirt. Then ye wid have bare arms...ken?"
Mat stepped into the doorway, pushing the young man against the wall with his hand around the front of his throat.
"Don't fuck with me, son. Enough is enough. Have you got what I'm looking for?"
"Yes!" the boy rasped. "A gun? You're here for the gun, right?"
"Bingo." Mat said, removing his hand and letting the youth struggle for breath.
"You got the cash?"
"Inside. I'll give it to you inside."
Mat pushed the young man gently forward and he fell backwards into the apartment, quickly turning and hurrying back into his hovel.
Mat followed, leaving the door open behind him for a quick escape.
He followed the youth into a room littered with empty cans of beer, a table, a sofa and a large flat screen television sitting on a small wooden table. The window was dirty, but the view of the mountain from the third floor of the building was amazing.
"What's the mountain called, kid?" Mat asked.
"Arthur's Seat. And it's no' a mountain. It's a wee hill. Where's the cash. You’re meant to give me £5000. You got it or no?"
Mat reached inside his jacket and pulled out a plastic bag. He tossed it across to the youth, who tried to catch it, but failed. It fell to the ground, and he slowly bent down to pick it up.
"It's all in there kid. Where's my gun?"
"I'll count it first!" the kid replied.
"If you can count to ten, I'll be impressed. Five thousand seems way out of your league. Especially in your state. Let me give you some advice, son. If you're going to do this type of business, lay off your own drugs. Get my drift?"
The spotty teenager had taken the contents out of the bag, and was flicking through a wad of red fifty pound notes. The American was right. He wasn't going to be able to count it. It looked a lot. Yeah…there was probably five thousand there. He'd take the Yank's word for it.
"The gun's there, under the seat of the sofa." The teenager said, pointing.
Mat stepped towards the sofa, lifted the seat and picked up a green plastic bag. He looked inside. There was a gun, just as he had requested.
Mat reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of gloves, and slipped them on. He reached into the bag, pulled the gun out and started to examine it.
Mat smiled. It was exactly what he had ordered, although he still couldn't quite believe just how easy it was to procure such a weapon in another country at such short notice: a Glock 19 nine-millimetre semi-automatic pistol with an extended 33-round magazine that allowed Mat to spray more than 30 bullets in just a minute or two, if needed.
He flicked open the cartridge and dropped the magazine out so he could count the bullets. It was empty. There were none of the extra-large black polymer bullet that he had ordered.
Mat looked up, raising his eyebrows and lifting the magazine and showing it to the boy in such a way that it was obvious what he was looking for.
"The bullets? They’re no there. Do you think I'm fucking daft, pal? I'm no giving you a gun and the bullets at the same bloody time! What's tae stop ye just shooting me and taking yir money right back? I'm no an idiot!"
"Where's my bullets. I paid for them."
"Go back to your car. There's a bin...a trash can to ye yanks, right?...in the car park. If you look in the bucket, ...I mean, the 'trash can', you'll find a white plastic bag wi all yir bullets in it. Dinnie worry, like, they're all there."
Mat smiled. Someone somewhere wasn't as stupid as this kid looked. Whose idea was the bullets in the trash-can? Not bad...
He lifted the gun up, and pointed it at the kid. Even though it was empty, Mat saw the sudden fear and alarm in the boy's eyes. Mat was just about to say something smart, to give the kid some more advice about manners and how to do business in future, when he heard a cough. He spun around and saw an old man standing in the doorway, a gun pointed straight at Mat.
"Hi there Davie. Remember me?" the old man said, then coughed, the gun in his hand shaking slightly but still pointing at Mat.
The young man turned to the old man, saw the gun in his hands and backed away from him, dropping the wad of money onto the floor. "Mr Wallace?" the confusion showing quite clearly on his face. He was obviously trying to cope with understanding what the hell was going on around him.
"So," the old man said, now looking at the man with the gun. "Are you going to shoot him first, or shall I?"
Mat was suddenly speechless, trying to quickly comprehend the dynamic of the situation that was unfolding. The old man was obviously here for the kid, and not for him.
"You first, if you like. I was just here to buy this!" Mat replied, lifting up the barrel of the gun and turning it very slightly towards the old man.
Mr Wallace saw the gun moving, and reacted immediately. He didn't know who this man was or where he had come from. But anybody who was caught doing business in this hovel, especially buying guns, was obviously part of the whole big problem that Mr Wallace had sworn to eradicate from the estate. He was still contemplating the situation when he saw the man turning the barrel of his gun towards himself. There was no more time to think. Mr Wallace raised the barrel, pulled the trigger and shot the other man twice in the chest.
The blast picked Mat up, propelled him across the room and smashed his body into the flat screen TV. Mat slumped forward, and rolled onto the ground, the TV bashing off the wall behind him and then bouncing forward and crashing down on top of his body.
The old man stepped forward, coughed, and then shot the man once more through the head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man move towards the door, and Wallace shouted "Stop!" at the top of his weak voice.
The boy froze.
"Sit on the sofa. Now."
Wallace lifted the gun up higher, as the boy turned in the doorway and moved slowly to the sofa.
"Now sit the fuck down. I need a minute to recover from climbing those bloody stairs of yours…," Mr Wallace said. "I’m exhausted." And he started to cough again.
"Mister Wallace, what are ye dain here?"
"I'm here to finish a job. I promised myself I would do it, and I don't forget my promises."
Mr Wallace reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. He tossed it across to Davie on the sofa.
"Open it up, and pin it to your jacket."
Mr Wallace saw the recognition on the boy's face as he opened up the piece of paper and looked at it. He saw the fear in his eyes and he looked at Mr Wallace, suddenly comprehending exactly what was about to happen.
"You? You're in the CRAIGMILLAR RESIDENTS FOR LAW AND ORDER 'CREW'?"
"No son, I am the CRAIGMILLAR RESIDENTS FOR LAW AND ORDER 'CREW'!"
Mr Wallace started to cough. His hand was beginning to shake now, his gun getting heavier by the minute. The climb up the stairs had almost killed him, and he was still feeling light headed and very weak. He needed to sit down.
For a moment, Mr Wallace hesitated. Davie was young, misguided and a pathetic specimen of the youth of today, but how much wrong the hoodlum had actually done in his life, Mr Wallace didn't really know. It all depended upon how much the Porty Crew had corrupted him since Rab's departure from the estate. Maybe a lot, maybe not that much.
Was it right to kill him too?
Had it been right to kill any of them?
There had been times over the past days when guilt and remorse had begun
to rack his conscience in the wee small hours of the night. He had started to question what he had done. Doubts were creeping in. By killing Jamsie, Wee Eck and Tam, was he actually any better than those he was murdering?
Was vigilante action really the answer?
Mr Wallace felt suddenly very tired. He was very confused.
He knew his time was running out.
If he was going to do anything now, he had to do it soon, whilst he still could, and before he talked himself out of it.
He swallowed hard, made a decision, and hardened his resolve.
A soldier never questioned the orders he was given: Mr Wallace ordered himself to complete his task.
"I'm sorry son. I don't actually have time to talk, so I will just say 'Goodbye' now."
Mr Wallace pulled the trigger twice, the first bullet hitting the youth in the shoulder, and the second bullet missing him altogether and getting stuck in the wall.
He tried to level the gun once more, and fired another bullet, aiming for his heart, but hitting him wide and somewhere in the chest. The youth was pushed back into the sofa, and then slid slowly down onto the floor.
Mr Wallace stepped forward and sat down on the now empty seat.
He breathed deeply for a few minutes, closing his eyes and trying to steady his heart. Then he opened his eyes, picked up the paper from the CRAIGMILLAR RESIDENTS FOR LAW AND ORDER 'CREW' from the floor, and pinned it to Davie's chest.
Davie was still breathing. His eyes were shut and blood was oozing out of the front of his clothes. Wallace had seen many chest wounds during the war, and he was quite sure that this one would prove to be fatal. Unfortunately Mr Wallace only had a limited supply of ammo, and he needed to keep his last bullet spare for someone else. He decided to leave Davie to his own fate. Almost certainly he would die, but should he live, then perhaps that would be divine intervention. Good luck to him.
He looked around the room, taking in his surroundings.
What a mess.
He looked across at the other body on the floor. Mr Wallace had no idea who he was, but from what he could tell, the man had been here to buy something. Maybe the gun, or maybe drugs. Whatever he was looking for, he was scum of some sort, and as such, the CRAIGMILLAR RESIDENTS FOR LAW AND ORDER 'CREW' were completely justified in killing him.
Knife After Death: A chilling crime thriller Page 25