California

by Ray Banks

  Shug lowered his eyes, pretended to think it over. Then he said, “I don’t know, lads.”

  “What’s not to know?” said Len.

  “Things are a bit fucked up with us at the moment. Got some loose ends I need to tie up before I commit to a new career, know what I mean?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like ... What’s your long-term goal, Leonard?”

  “Come again?”

  “Your long-term goal. Your dream.”

  “Make as much fuckin’ money as possible,” said Golly, leaning across with the spliff.

  Len waved it away. “That’s good enough for me an’ all. Why, what’s yours?”

  “I want to see the world,” said Shug.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Seriously.”

  “When’d this happen?”

  “Saughton.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Not kidding. Had a lot of time to sit and think in there. When you get that, you get a chance to look at your priorities, and one of mine turned out that I wanted to travel a bit, see outside of the lowlands. Which is why I’m not staying long.”

  “You’re going on holiday, then,” said Golly.

  “Could say that.”

  “What about your licence?” said Len. “You have to report in.”

  “I’ll work something out.”

  Len didn’t say anything. He drank his whisky. Topped up the glass. Held the bottle out to Shug, who took a couple of glugs and kept the bottle down by the side of his chair. He drank some this time, felt the violent burn at the back of his throat, felt his gut contract. He didn’t show it.

  Golly held out the spliff again. “Anyone want to get on that, they’re more than fuckin’ welcome.”

  “Watch yourself,” said Len.

  Shug looked across at Golly. His skin had gone from its usual white to green. A toke or two from whitey, and he knew it. Golly moved on the settee. Something metal showed between the cushions and the back. Shug didn’t get a chance to see it in any detail before Golly moved in front of it with his beer.

  “Where you going?” said Len.

  “Away,” said Shug.

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know yet. Depends on if I like it there.”

  “Being awful secretive, Shug.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Like you’ve got something to hide.”

  “No.”

  Len smiled, but there was no humour in it. He leaned back in his chair again. “Y’know, it’s funny, when Fi texted us, I thought she was having a laugh. I said that to Gol, didn’t I, Gol?”

  Golly didn’t say anything. Had a Stan Laurel face on him as he nodded.

  “I’d be lying if I said we were expecting you out so soon, Shug.”

  “Same here.”

  “So how’d that happen, then?”

  “Good behaviour.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You’re not the good behaviour type.”

  “I am now.”

  “Fuck off,” said Len, with less conviction this time. “Mad dog like you disnae just do his fuckin’ time. You’re telling me there weren’t incidents?”

  “There’s always incidents.”

  “What’d I tell you?”

  “It’s how you handle them that counts.”

  “And you managed to keep your fuckin’ temper the whole time?” said Len, his eyes slits. “You. Of all the fuckin’ people in this world to get his early licence.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “That’s the way it happened.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think you kept your head down. I think you buckled under.”

  “You what?”

  “You ken what I mean.”

  Golly laughed, short and sudden.

  “You’re asking did I turn,” said Shug.

  Len didn’t answer. He just kept smiling. Shug wanted to plunge his fist into that grin, turn the fucker inside out.

  “No,” said Shug. “I didn’t turn. Not like that. And if you’re asking did I sell you and the boy here –“

  “Who the fuck you calling a boy?” said Golly, too mashed to get too emotional. What would have been anger registering as mild irritation thanks to the tack. “Watch your fuckin’ tongue, Shugs.”

  “If you’re asking did I tell the authorities who was that masked man with me? Who was the daft twat who couldn’t burn a fuckin’ car properly? Then no, I didn’t. Because why would I, Len? No point in telling them what they already know. What I’m more interested in is how I managed to do four in Saughton while youse two are playing New Jack City out here.”

  Len smiled, some of it reaching his eyes.

  “Come on, now,” he said.

  “Fuck off, now.”

  “Let’s have another drink, eh?”

  “You brought us here to drink, aye. And I’ve done that. Now you do me the courtesy of answering my fuckin’ question, son.”

  Len glanced at Golly. Golly nodded slowly and emphatically. Irritation flashed on Len’s face. “Tell you what, how about we stop the fucking about, eh? Get the good stuff out.” He stood, kicked the settee. “Golly, wake up, you dozy cunt. I’m going to get the good stuff.”

  Golly pulled himself up to a sitting position. Shug caught the metal again. He drank his beer, felt a bubble of gas burst into a belch.

  “I’ll away and get some glasses and then we’ll be having you,” said Len.

  Shug watched Len leave the room. Golly had started giggling. A snort every now and then, stifled by one fist. In the background, Tupac sang about California, and the song made Shug feel a little sad that it had come to this.

  “You think this is funny,” said Shug, quietly.

  “Naw, Shugs, naw.”

  “Aye, you do. Sitting there, you’re playing gangster. You’re loving it. The pair of you. So what’s he off to get there, Gol?”

  “The good stuff.”

  Shug picked up the bottle of whisky by the side of his chair, held it up to Golly. “The good stuff, eh? Hope so, because this is shite, this. Wouldn’t give this to the fuckin’ homeless.”

  “You ken how it is, Shugs.”

  “I know how it is, Golly.” Shug stood, glanced at the closed door, then over at Len’s gaming chair.

  Golly shifted on the settee. One hand moved towards the dip in the back of the cushions.

  Shug wanted to tell Golly not to do it. He wanted to say that he knew exactly what he was doing, that there was a sawn-off down the settee there and Golly was going for it. That Golly was too fucking mashed or too fucking stupid not to realise Shug was onto him. And he just wanted to tell Golly to leave it. It didn’t matter. Whatever Len had told him to do, it didn’t matter. Because Shuggie Boyle was a changed man. He hadn’t lied about that. He wasn’t the same bloke who’d stood in the dock and said nothing. That bloke would’ve taken a quick and nasty revenge on whoever he thought had put him there. That bloke wouldn’t have even needed the confirmation that it was either of them that’d shopped him. Chances are, he would’ve taken that revenge regardless, as a means of exercising his frustration at having the last four years of his life taken off him.

  But he’d changed.

  He was calm now. Gentle.

  Which was why he turned away when he brought the whisky bottle down across the back of Golly’s head.

  7

  The first blow caught Golly hard, but the bottle stayed intact. Golly jerked forward, looked like he was struck with a stomach cramp. Both hands went from the settee to the back of his head. His mouth hung open, a scream lodged behind his tonsils.

  Shug shattered the bottle the second time, sent cheap whisky across the settee and lino, blood from a burst scalp quick to follow. Golly found his voice, scrambled off the settee. His legs went out from under him and he hit the floor. He grabbed at the telly to try and steady himself. Le
ft a bloody smear on the screen, more blood spilling across his cheeks. Shug chucked the bottle neck at Len’s chair and leant over, pulled the sawn-off from down the back of the settee.

  Cracked the spout. Two in there. Paranoid fucking bastards.

  Correct fucking bastards, as it turned out.

  Whether it was there in case of chancer stick-up men, or because they were expecting him round, it didn’t matter. Fact was, Golly was supposed to use this on him, at the very least to keep him in place. And for that, Shug flared enough to kick him in the ribs. Then he nipped to the side of the living room as he heard Len approach. He sucked in a deep breath.

  Len burst into the room. “The fuck? Gol –“

  Butt of the sawn-off, short jab to the temple. Another jab knocked Len’s nose out of whack, killed his vision with tears and got the blood flowing. Shug moved forward, put one foot over Len’s, pushed both barrels against the man’s knee and pulled the trigger.

  A colossal explosion. Made him flinch away from the light, the heat, and the light warm spray on his face. He stepped back, arm aching with the recoil. He blinked, rubbed the stinging smell of smoke from his nose. He looked across at Len, the man’s leg pulverised into a sodden bloody mess, his face white, eyes as wide as his mouth. And then, over the ringing in his ears, he began to hear the screams.

  “Daft lads. Had a chance to be a fuckin’ man about it, you had to act like little boys.”

  Len flailed on the floor, trying to reach for something at his back. Shug moved quickly, shoved him onto his stomach, and tugged the drilled air pistol from the back of his jeans.

  “Should’ve had it out, you might’ve had a chance to get one off. You’ll remember for next time, eh?”

  Len made a noise that sounded like he was drowning. Shug pushed him back upright. Len’s head lolled back. About to pass out, but keeping himself awake through sheer fucking rage. “I’m gonna ... I’m gonna ...”

  “What?” said Shug, breathing heavily, flexing his fingers around the trigger guard of the sawn-off. “Come on, Len-son. Say what you need to say.”

  “Gonna fuckin’ kill ...”

  “Me? No, you’re not, Len. You’re not killing nothing.” Golly moved behind him. Shug backed up a step, glanced over at him. “How’re you, Gol?”

  Golly groaned.

  “That’s what I thought. See now lads, you both need to have a think about how this evening could have gone. Have a wee mull on the alternatives. Open your minds to the possibility that if you’d treated us with a wee bit more respect, not treated us like a bit player in a fuckin’ gangster film, then you wouldn’t be lying here with your scalp in ribbons, and you’d still have your fuckin’ knee.”

  Len sounded as if he was trying to say “fluff” over and over again. He was fading, struggling to stay conscious.

  “You keep at it, son. Don’t think I don’t know who grassed us up, eh? Something else to think on: I wasn’t going to come round here tonight. I wasn’t going to do nothing to you. I was going to leave you alone, let bygones be fuckin’ bygones. But you were the one pushed it. You were the one brought us round. So all this? You did it to yourself. You know what kind of man I was, you know you got off fuckin’ lucky here tonight. I could’ve done the pair of youse and been offski before the polis caught wind. Because, let’s face it, that was what you were going to do to me, eh?”

  Len grinned at Shug.

  “It’s why she texted you. Tell you I was there. So you’d be fuckin’ ready to finish it off.”

  Len nodded.

  Shug nodded back at him, pulled the mobile from his pocket. He went through the texts sent, found the last one.

  Smiled at first, but felt it drop almost immediately.

  It read: SHUG HERE DONT HURT HIM PLS

  Shug read it a couple of times, dropped pauses in where he thought they should go, then cleared out of it. He turned the phone off, held it tight in one white fist. He stared at Len, who stared right back, even though his eyes were glazed and his anger draining out of him as the blood began to adhere him to the lino. Shug looked over at Golly, alive and awake, but only just. He dropped the mobile onto the settee, nudged Golly with the side of his foot.

  “Call for an ambulance before he bleeds out,” said Shug. “I’d take your cuts for grassing us up, but you’ve got nothing worth taking.”

  He put the sawn-off on Len’s gaming chair, turned and headed for the hall. He heard the moans, the dizzy scramble as one of them launched themselves at the weapon. Just before he slammed the front door, he heard a cry of triumph, a grunt of exertion. And just as soon as he’d cleared the door, there was an explosion behind him and council blue wood chips sprayed the path.

  Shug looked back, saw Golly’s familiar silhouette at the end of the hall.

  He gave it a shot, at least. Shug couldn’t fault him for that.

  He started walking. Something stung his leg. He looked down, saw the tiny hole in his jeans, felt the trickle of blood at the top of his calf. He carried on.

  Heard Cocker’s voice in his head: “Think about it this way, Hugh, someone keeps giving you a hard time, what do you do?”

  “I have a word with them.”

  “And if that doesn’t take?”

  “I have another word.”

  Shug heard the harsh sound of prison laughter. It echoed.

  “And when that doesn’t take,” said Cocker. “What do you do then?”

  “I kill them.”

  The laughter cut short. The thrum of strip-lighting, but otherwise silent.

  Cocker said: “Then that’s what you’ll do to yourself if you keep allowing your temper to get the better of you.”

  Shug shook his head.

  “You have to let your anger dissipate naturally. Healthily. Think of anger as a mixture of both emotional and physical changes. The emotional is obvious, but the physical is what I imagine pushes you towards violence, Hugh, yes? The physical change is a massive surge of energy, and that energy, well, it has to go somewhere, doesn’t it? And the first instinct isn’t to channel it, is it? It’s to explode.”

  Cocker made the childish noise of a bomb blowing up.

  “You just need to breathe it out,” he said.

  “I just need to breathe it out,” said Shug.

  But he couldn’t, could he? Because Shug was Shug, and he’d always be that way. Shug’s Granda was called Shug, too. It was his Granda he’d been named after, his Granda everyone said he resembled. And it was his Granda who originated the family temper. Famous for it. Hard man. Miner. Worked the pits his entire life, or as good as, breathed coal dust like it was oxygen. He lost good mates in blasts, lost a few more to themselves. Like them, Granda drank his blood thin and shed everyone else’s once he’d had a few, and there was nothing better than a square go to put a cap on a night out, preferably with someone who gave as good as they got. By the time little Shug showed up on the scene, Granda’s face looked like a brown paper bag full of walnuts, and moved like it too.

  He was a good man, mind. A good man with a terrible affliction, and Shug loved him. Course, he never said it. It wasn’t something you said. Just like he never cried at the man’s funeral.

  Granda went the Peckinpah way, swinging his fists from the floor. Beaten into a coma in a Govan boozer when he picked a bone with five rough-hewn cunts who didn’t think twice about kicking shite out of an eighty-year-old man. He slept for four days after that, hooked up to breathing and bleeping machines, before he fought them too and ended up croaking at tea time, just as one of the nurses was sitting down to watch The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

  Always the inconsiderate bastard.

  Shug slowed as he rounded the corner into the street where Ailsa lived. He checked that nobody was following him, then sat on a low front wall.

  Getting tired. He rubbed at the small wound on his leg. It didn’t have the pulsing ache that came with shot, so he guessed he’d been nicked by one of the wood chips. He ran one hand over his face, closed his eyes u
ntil he felt his heart slow down.

  Like Cocker said to him, a man couldn’t stay belligerent his whole life. Quite apart from the fact it would probably end in him getting kicked into a twitching paste, the rage put a strain on the heart and digestive system. It gave him warnings. It had a word with him. And if that word didn’t take, it would kill him.

  Shug felt himself shake. He closed his eyes. Breathed through his nose. Counted to ten, then twenty. When he hit thirty, he opened his eyes again. Black spots jumped in his vision. He looked down the round at Ailsa’s house.

  It would be alright. A slight lapse, that’s all it was.

  It would be alright once he got his stash. Then he’d be out of here.

  8

  “Ailsa, open the door. It’s me.”

  It was late, getting on for later, but they were in. Steve’s Land Rover was parked out front. If the car was home, then so was he. Steve was the kind of bloke who never strayed too far from his beloved Land Rover, and if he was in, then Ailsa was probably somewhere near. She didn’t have the nous to wander off. Too timid. Which was the main reason Steve married her.

  He knocked on the door again. Saw a light come on in the hall. He looked over his shoulder at the road. Empty. Shug hoped that Len and Golly would take the hint and stay down. He didn’t hear any sirens, either. Wondered if one or both of them had bled out.

  The front door opened. He turned back to see Ailsa stood in the doorway, blinking at him. She was wearing going-out clothes, but looked dishevelled enough to have just come in. The smell that came off her was perfume and gin, reminded him of their mam. So did her voice, which was shaking when she said, “Shuggie?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh my God, Shug.” She stepped out, threw loose arms around his neck and squeezed him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you for ... I don’t know. How long’s it been?”

  “A while.”