by Tor Fleck
RAP! RAP! RAP! He didn’t care how loud he was knocking. His head was already thumping from the flashing ceiling light. Might as well spread the joy. There was no reply. He rapped again, and suddenly the door flew open. A hollow-cheeked skinhead in stained white vest and boxers stood in the doorway brandishing a bright orange baseball bat. Oh Christ, it’s a junkie John McClane. Paul instinctively raised his hands and cowered at the same time.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ roared Junkie John.
‘Sorry, mate. Is this number 19?’ Paul anticipated an imminent blow to the skull.
‘Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?’ This time the bat was shoved right in Paul’s face.
‘I’m looking for a friend,’ said Paul. ‘She lives at 19 Ballhill Rise.’
‘He’s efter a burd!’ Junkie John shouted back into the flat. Paul heard muffled laughter from inside. The bat was raised again and Paul instinctively covered his face. ‘19’s oor there,’ said Junkie John, indicating opposite. ‘Ya manky wee bastard.’ He grinned a broken-toothed grin and slammed the door in Paul’s face.
Paul fell back against the wall. What the fuck am I doing? Just then, the flickering light lit up the door opposite. It was slightly ajar. Curious, Paul pushed himself off the wall and, with a single finger, eased the door open. ‘Hello?’ There was no reply so he stepped inside. ‘Detective Quinn?’ Paul poked his head into a room off the hallway. It was completely empty, bare wires dangling ominously from the walls and ceiling, a black hole like a decaying tooth cavity the only evidence that a fireplace had once heated the room. Further along the hall was the remains of a kitchen, the remains in question being a mouldy fridge with a missing door. What kind of safe house is this? thought Paul.
‘Awright, wee man.’ Three stereotypical neds – in crispy shell-suits and with even crispier zits – had formed a silent triangle behind Paul. ‘How’s it gawn?’ one of them sneered through a pubic-hair moustache.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Paul, in a voice he thought – hoped – masked his nervousness.
‘Ye lookin fur anything in particular?’ asked Pubic Moustache, his noticeable squint aimed somewhere over Paul’s left shoulder.
‘Just a friend.’
‘Oh, a friend?’ Pubic Moustache stepped forward, as did his compadres. ‘Who’s that then?’
‘A mate …’ said Paul, ‘… and his mates. They should be back any minute from … the Judo club.’
All three neds laughed. ‘Hear that, boys?’ said Pubic Moustache. ‘Bruce Lee and his pals are on their way.’ He moved his gaze even further over Paul’s shoulder. ‘Are yeez efter ony skank tae take back tae yer posh mates at the Judo club then?’
‘Thanks,’ said Paul, edging around towards the door, ‘but we’re fine. We’re just, you know … visiting.’
‘Visiting, eh?’ Pubic Moustache spread out his arms and grinned. ‘Well … welcome to the fuckin Hotel California!’ He suddenly ran straight at Paul and grabbed him by the collar, ramming him up against the wall. He’s got a fucking squint! thought Paul randomly, as air rapidly escaped his chest. He shouldn’t have that level of visual accuracy! He instinctively kicked out at Pubic Moustache, but only succeeded in getting an elbow to the throat for his trouble. The pain was hot, immediate, and massive. He screamed. Loudly.
‘Shh,’ hissed Pubic Moustache. ‘Ye’ll wake the wean.’
‘Fuck off!’ wheezed Paul, continuing valiantly to resist.
‘Watch him, Bawbag,’ Pubic Moustache told the plookiest of his two accomplices. ‘He’ll get his mates tae karate chop ye.’ Bawbag and Least Plookiest Ned roared with laughter. Paul kicked out again, and this time connected with Pubic Moustache’s shin. ‘The wee man’s a bit feisty,’ said Pubic Moustache, biting his lip and forcing Paul back against the wall. ‘We like feisty, don’t we, boys?’ His accomplices nodded. In a quick one-two motion, Public Moustache thumped Paul on the side of the head and followed it up with a punch to the gut, inches away from Paul’s scar. Paul fell to the floor in pain. Pubic Moustache grabbed the back of Paul’s head and slammed his face against the wooden floorboards. ‘Behave!’ he yelled, and slammed Paul’s face down a second time. Paul held up his hand in defeat and was bundled back to his feet. ‘Oh, that’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there,’ grinned Pubic Moustache, and head-butted Paul. Blood spurted everywhere. ‘I tell you what, lads,’ he said, ‘that Judo’s fuckin dangerous, init?’ Bawbag and Least Plookiest Ned nodded in sycophantic unison.
‘What do you want?’ Paul coughed through the blood and pain.
‘Ah, there we are,’ smiled Pubic Moustache. ‘That’s better. Now,’ he said, cocking his head like a yearning puppy, ‘tell me. Did you bring it?’
‘I’ve no cash, but take my phone,’ said Paul, trying to reach into his pocket.
Pubic Moustache turned to his mates. ‘He thinks we’re common thieves, gentlemen.’ Bawbag shook his head sadly. Pubic Moustache grabbed Paul by the hair and forced his head back. ‘Stop wasting my time, uni boy. Did you bring it?’
‘Bring what?’
‘Oh, come, come, Mr Bond,’ Pubic Moustache quipped. ‘The wee sticky wicky.’
Paul blinked in surprise. ‘The USB stick?’
Pubic Moustache cupped his ear. ‘Echo … echo …’ From behind his back he suddenly whipped out a long carving knife. ‘Shall I carve the turkey, dear?’ he sneered. Bawbag and Least Plookiest Ned nodded enthusiastically. Pubic Moustache turned the blade and slid the tip into Paul’s left nostril. ‘Don’t move,’ he said, and twisted it a little further.
‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Paul.
‘Really?’ asked Pubic Moustache. ‘But I’m having such good fun. I thought you were too.’ In a single swift move he sliced through the tip of Paul’s nose. Paul screamed in agony as blood gushed from the wound. ‘Jesus Christ, stop! Please!’ Pubic Moustache pressed the blade against Paul’s windpipe. ‘I’m going to ask you one … more … time,’ he said, picking at the skin with the razor sharp tip. ‘Where. Is. The. Stick?’
‘I don’t have – ’
Suddenly, the door flew open and a second group of stereotypical neds stormed in, complete with baseball bats, knives, and, in one case, a large machete. ‘Jez McQueen!’ roared Machete, pointing his blade at him. ‘You’re on ma turf.’
‘Just a wee bit o’ extra-curricular activity, Gordo, man,’ managed Pubic Moustache, unable to hide his fear.
Machete Gordo pointed to Paul. ‘The fuck’s this?’
‘Just a mark, Gordo, man. Nae cunt special. Sincerely sorry for the intrusion, man. We’re oota here.’ Pubic Moustache’s pubic moustache was sweating now.
‘Too late for that, Jez. You have breached protocol.’ Machete Gordo grinned horribly at his waiting gang. ‘FUCKIN AT THEM!’
A baseball bat to the head forced Pubic Moustache to let his captive go, and Paul ducked his way to the door to escape the flying limbs and weapons. Agonised shrieks followed him along the corridor and all the way down the stairs. At the bottom, a single gunshot echoed around the upper floors. Paul raced on, not looking back, through the estate and across the waste ground to the bus stop, where a young mother with a pram sat waiting in the burnt-out shelter. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said through a haze of vape-smoke. ‘Whit the fuck happened tae you?’
‘I fell over a shopping trolley,’ said Paul, wiping the blood from his face.
‘Ye need tae get that seen tae.’ The woman dug around in the pram and produced a packet of wet wipes. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him the box.
‘Thanks,’ said Paul, and padded gently at the flap of skin across his nose.
The woman blew out a lungful of smoke. ‘This fuckin place,’ she muttered.
‘Is there a bus due?’ Paul asked, looking anxiously up the road.
‘Should be. As long as the driver husnae bricked it and turnt roon.’
Paul’s face fell. Oh, fuck. Pubic Moustache had exited the high-rise, clutching his face, and was now heading towards them, Bawbag and Least Plookiest Ned
close behind. Paul only realised he was holding his breath when the approaching bus overtook them and he visibly relaxed. But not for long.
‘What’s he doing?’ he asked the woman, as the driver stopped the bus about twenty feet away from the stop.
‘This is whit they dae,’ she said. ‘Can you run an tell him tae wait fur me?’
The driver took one look at Paul’s bloodied face and refused to open the doors. Paul banged on them until they hissed apart. ‘See that woman up there?’ he shouted in. ‘She’s got cancer and needs to get to her chemo appointment!’ Glancing back along the road, he could see the neds closing. The driver tutted, put down his paper, and started up the engine. ‘She’s fucking terminal!’ yelled Paul. ‘Have a heart, for God’s sake.’
‘Awright!’ said the driver impatiently. Paul jumped on, and with great reluctance the driver rolled up to the stop. Paul checked the rear mirror. The neds were only yards away. ‘That’s her husband chasing after her,’ he said. ‘He’s a fucking animal. He wants to kill her. And the wean!’
The driver shook his head. ‘This fucking place.’ The doors hissed open and Paul leapt out and grabbed the pram. ‘Get in!’ he yelled at the mother. ‘Now!’ She got on just as the neds reached the bus, the door closing practically in their faces. All three immediately ran to the front of the bus and banged on the bonnet. The driver never said a word, just revved the engine and took off, knocking the three of them over like skittles. ‘Wee cunts,’ he growled, not even looking back to see if he’d injured any of them. When the mother tried to pay he waved her away. ‘You’ve been through enough, hen,’ he said, ‘wi that arsehole husband ae yours.’
‘Ah dinnae hay ah-’ The woman started but then thought better of telling the driver she’d chucked her last boyfriend four years ago. But she’d just saved herself three quid, so she kept shtum and pushed the pram to the back of the bus. Paul, meanwhile, slumped back in a seat near the front and called Richard. It went straight to answerphone.
‘Richard, if you get this, call me now! It’s really fucking urgent. We’re being played. The whole thing is a scam to get our script. Torrensen, Alice, Quinn – they’re all in it together. We’ve got to get out. Now! Pack your bags, I’m on my way over. I’ll explain when I get there.’
Suddenly it all made sense. Alice and Quinn had poisoned Paul and Richard’s minds with paranoia, suspicions, and lies, and turned them against one another. Paul kicked the seat in front of him. How could we be so fucking stupid? Maybe the whole G20 thing wasn’t so far-fetched after all. Maybe that was the smoking gun, the coincidence too far. Fuck! He tilted his head back and pushed a fresh wipe into the gash in his nose. The last train to Oban was under an hour away. If he could find Richard before those bastards get to him, he thought, they might just make it out of this thing alive.
28
As the bus pulled into the terminal, Paul leapt off and raced across the station concourse. He needed something to dress the wound and stem the blood still flowing from his nose. The station was unusually busy, the exit blocked by a large crowd gazing up at a plasma screen. C’mon, c’mon. Refusing to wait, Paul elbowed his way through the throng and out onto the street. There was a corner shop opposite and he made a bee-line for it. Inside, the turbaned shopkeeper was busy serving a customer, yet his eyes never wavered from the portable TV perched precariously on top of the cigarette cabinet.
‘‘s awful that, int it?’ the customer commented, digging into her joggies for a pound to pay for her single swiss roll.
‘Aye,’ said the shopkeeper, tugging on his silver beard, his gaze still on the TV, ‘the whole flat’s totally gone. That aw ye want? Just the swiss roll?’
‘Hurry up!’ Paul muttered under his breath.
‘Aye,’ said Joggies Woman, ‘thur’s a tin a custard in the hoose.’
Paul couldn’t take it any longer and barged to the front. ‘Do you have something to cover this?’ he said, pointing to his nose.
‘I’m serving a customer, sir,’ the shopkeeper said politely.
‘It’s fine, Jahinder,’ said Joggies Woman. ‘I need tae git up the road onyway.’ She held up the swiss roll. ‘Ma man’ll hink ah’ve gone aw the way tae Zurich fur this!’ She laughed and left the shop.
‘Do you have any plasters?’ asked Paul.
‘It’s A&E yer needin,’ said Jahinder. ‘Afore ye bleed oot on the flair. Ah’m no insured fur blood.’
‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Paul. ‘Please. A packet of plasters. That’s all I need.’
‘Suit yersel,’ said Jahinder, and rummaged under the counter.
Paul glanced up at the screen. An explosion at a block of flats had left a gaping hole in the building’s side, exposing the devastated interior. Shredded clothes and burnt-out furniture covered what little floor remained. Jahinder dropped a box of plasters onto the counter. ‘Yer really gonna need stitches, pal.’
‘Where’s this?’ asked Paul, nodding at the screen.
‘That new yuppie apartment block they built up the west end. Bloody death trap.’
‘Gartfield Terrace?’
‘Aye, that’s the wan.’
‘That’s Alice’s block.’
‘Who?’
‘Turn it up!’ urged Paul. Jahinder stabbed at a ragged remote.
The scene cut to a reporter standing at the end of the street behind a police cordon, the decimated building visible over her left shoulder.
“Neighbours say they heard a loud explosion in an upper flat around 3.30 this afternoon, which blew out a number of nearby windows. The flat is believed to be owned by a Ms Alice Lowe, a film production manager. Fire-fighters say the blaze is now under control and the building safely evacuated. No one is willing yet to say what caused the explosion, but police have confirmed one fatality, as yet unnamed, who was found dead at the scene. Police are appealing for eyewitnesses, and urge Ms Lowe’s boyfriend, a Mr Paul Grant, to contact them as soon as possible.”
Paul’s passport mug-shot flashed up on the screen. Jahinder spun round ‘Isn’t that …?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ cried Paul, and ran out the shop.
‘Hey!’ yelled Jahinder. ‘Ye huvnae paid fur yer plasters!’ But Paul was already out of sight. He’d disappeared into the subway station next door and was racing towards the platform.
A crowd gathered around the police cordon, staring, open-mouthed, at the decimated building. Fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars were lined up along Gartfield Terrace, as TV crews jostled for the best views of the carnage. Paul pushed his way to the front of the cordon, his face crumbling when he saw what the explosion had done. The crater in the side of the building was enormous; far more shocking than the images on TV. He pushed in further and ducked beneath the tape.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ A police officer grabbed Paul by the arm.
‘I need to get in there,’ said Paul, pulling away.
The police officer’s grip tightened. ‘Sorry, sir, no one’s permitted near the building until fire crews complete their safety inspections.’
‘But my wife and kids are in there,’ lied Paul.
‘What’s your name, sir?’ The officer peered closer at Paul. Shit, he knows who I am. Panicking, Paul yanked his arm away and spun around, pushing back into the crowd. ‘Stop!’ the officer hollered, chasing after him. Paul rounded a TV van and leapt over cables and equipment, ducking down a side street and hiding in a doorway. The officer ran past, allowing Paul to double back along Gartfield Terrace and on towards Byers Road.
A second police officer appeared, seemingly from nowhere. ‘Hoy!’ he yelled.
Shit! Despite his wound, Paul tore along Byres Road, swerving past shoppers and early evening drinkers. At the lights he clipped a couple of young lads and almost tumbled onto the road. A volley of abuse was hurled at him but he ran on. He could sense the officer over his shoulder getting ever closer. He took a sharp right and disappeared down a narrow alleyway, stumbling over bins and boxes and emerging onto Uni
versity Road. Breathing hard now, he made it through the gates of the old university building and cut across the green. When he reached the gothic arches of the quads, he stopped and dropped to his knees. The wound in his side roared with pain, and his lungs were on fire, his laboured gasps for air reverberating around the ancient domes. The officer was nowhere to be seen. Paul had lost him, either to boredom or exhaustion.
When he was sure the coast was clear, Paul left the quads and hobbled out front, taking the path that led down to the river. He spied a place he could hide: a thicket of bushes close to the water’s edge, separated from the riverbank by a wire fence. As he climbed over, his foot slipped and he fell onto his backside, the slippery muck taking him down towards the water. Snatching frantically at roots and branches, he found a handhold just in time. A second more and he would have been caught up in the fast-flowing, murky River Kelvin.
Paul climbed back up the bank and crawled into a shallow dip beneath a bush. He could hear sirens in the distance, and somewhere nearby a helicopter whup-whupped across the city, its searchlight scanning streets and houses on the far side of the park. Were they looking for him, or was it just another joyrider trying to fuck over the traffic cops? Paul tucked his legs in further to avoid being seen from the path or from above. He found his phone and dialled Richard’s number. He needed to warn him before Torrenson’s men got to him. The number rang out and then went dead. He tried again. No response. Hopefully, Richard had made his escape, or maybe he was too late. Maybe it was all too late. He suddenly felt scared. He was bewildered and exhausted, like a cornered rat waiting for the dogs to come and tear him to pieces. He zipped up his coat, tucked his hands under his arms, and mentally counted down the minutes till morning.