How a Gunman Says Goodbye

by Malcolm Mackay

  He’s leaving the house at ten minutes past ten. He’ll be at the flats before eleven, but he’ll spend a while sitting and watching. Give it as much time as possible. Make sure everyone’s fast asleep. Makes a job so much easier. It’s not raining tonight, which is something. He’s parked a little further away from the building tonight. He knows roughly which windows to watch now. No lights on in the flat that he’s sure belongs to Scott. There are two lights on in a flat three floors down, but he’s not worried about them. The key to his calm is the information that was put through his letter box in the afternoon. There’s nobody in the flat opposite. Nobody in the flat next door, either. Only one other occupied flat on that entire floor, and it’s at the opposite end of the corridor. The flat directly beneath is occupied, and that’s the one concern. The man who lives there might hear the gunshot. Might be too deeply asleep to hear it. Might hear it and not realize what it is. With a floor between them, it shouldn’t matter. Frank will be out by the time anyone hearing the shot has clambered from their bed.

  He’s sitting watching the door. The hip’s starting to grumble a little. It’s these moments when he wishes he still smoked. Used to. Used to smoke thirty a day. Right up until Peter Jamieson told him the rough tobacco he smoked smelled terrible. That didn’t matter. He then told Frank that he could always recognize the smell on his clothes. That mattered. You can’t have a distinctive smell as a gunman. No more than you can have a distinctive look, mannerism or sound. You see many kids in the business today covered in tattoos. Morons, every single one. Marking their bodies with immediately distinctive designs. Stupid. So he was worried about the smell, especially with fewer people than ever smoking. Back in the day, the smell blended in. Not any more. So he quit smoking, and began munching through a packet of extra-strong mints every day instead. That might have been a great leap forward for his lungs, but not for the smell. The minty-fresh gunman. Still too distinctive, so he quit the mints, too.

  Nothing, and more nothing. The last lights in the building going out. It’s twenty past midnight when the door opens and a figure emerges. A young man. Hard to get a good look from here. Definitely too short to be Scott. Could well be his mate, though. Looks like the kind of little oaf that Clueless McClure undoubtedly is. He’s walking along the side of the building and round the corner. Out of view. Going home for the night. Frank’s smiling to himself. One less thing to worry about. It’ll be Scott alone, and that’s a job he can deal with. Okay, he’s honest enough to accept that there isn’t a whole lot of glory in this job. When he was away, Calum did the Winter job cleanly. Then he handled the Davidson attack. Glory in that. They might think he’s milking his hand injuries, but they admire the job he did. Brave and smart, they all say. Kept his head clear throughout. This is nothing like that. A simple job to send a message. There was always that thought in the back of Frank’s mind when he was away. People forget about you. Forget that you’re capable of doing a good job as well. The flavour of the month gets all the attention. You need to do something to grab it back. Even something simple, like this.

  He’s waited another half-hour in the darkness. Waiting for any sort of movement. Any sign of a light. Giving it a little more time. The clock’s reached one. Enough waiting. He’s out of the car. A little thing he’s never driven before. Nippy and uninspiring. He’ll switch back to his own car as soon as he’s done here. This’ll be the only time he’ll ever be near this car. No one could possibly link it to him. Pulling on his balaclava and walking across the car park. Nobody in sight. Cold, but dry. Walking briskly up to the door. Suppressing that last hint of a limp. It’s a recognizable feature. In through the door, confident the camera doesn’t work. Pressing the button for the lift and stepping in as the doors open. A slight twinge of nerves in the pit of his stomach. Someone else could be calling the lift. Maybe he should have left it an hour later. Too late for these thoughts now. Kill the nerves and focus. You’re past the point of no return.

  The lift’s opening on Scott’s floor. Frank’s stepping slowly out, looking left and right. The lights are on all night in the corridor, but there’s no sign of life. All doors closed. Silence reigns. Walking softly to the left, along the corridor. Reaching into his inside coat pocket for the gun. A small thing he picked up from his supplier. He has three suppliers that he rotates, so none realizes how much work he does. Been working with them all for a long time. There’s trust there now. Still better not to let any of them know your work schedule. The gun isn’t powerful, he can see that. Good enough to guarantee a kill at short range. That’s all it needs to be. Checking around him as he reaches the door. Knocking twice. Loud enough to wake Scott, but not a dramatic thump that might make him wary. Frank’s standing slightly to the side. Just out of view of the peephole. A man in a balaclava with a gun at his side is not a man you open the door to. Waiting. Ready to knock again. Then something strange. It sounds like a crack in the distance. Things are going white. He can feel his legs give way. Is it his hip? No, he’s realized as he’s falling forward against the door of Scott’s flat, it’s worse than that.

  7

  Everything’s blurry. Dark around the edges, with an uncomfortable light in the middle. Closing his eyes again, that seems easier. It’s taking a few seconds, fuzzy moments of discomfort, but now he’s remembering where he is. He’s keeping his eyes shut anyway. The sooner he opens them, the sooner he has to confront the situation. Better to be silent. Better to listen.

  ‘I think he moved, Tommy, I think I saw him move. Definitely.’

  A nasal exclamation. So much for lying still and listening. Stay still. You’re not dead yet. You can still retrieve this. As long as you’re breathing, things can turn around. He can hear them both walking up and down the corridor. They’re not doing anything. Pacing the floor, trying to work out what to do with their prize. They have Frank MacLeod where they want him. They just don’t know what to do next.

  He’s opening his eyes now, looking at them. Look for the detail that matters. Tommy Scott’s holding the gun. He has it down at his side. He looks pained. Looks like he’s trying to work something out. The expression of a kid who’s in over his head. The corridor’s dimly lit. Lamplight, it looks like. Scott’s little mate, Andy ‘Clueless’ McClure, is standing beside him. He looks excited, lost in the thrill of the moment. Adrenalin controlling intelligence. Not that there was much of that to begin with. Scott was always the brains of this little operation. Frank’s in no place to judge, though. He’s the one lying on the floor, just inside the front door. Everyone’s more intelligent than him right now. The dingy corridor he’s lying in opens into the kitchen at the bottom. There are two closed doors on his right and one on his left. The front door’s behind him. The only way out.

  He can’t even remember it happening. He remembers knocking on the front door. Just after one o’clock in the morning. Feeling the reassuring gun in his right hand, out of view of the door. Ready to step inside, and shoot. Quick job, in and out, leave the body. So simple. Now he’s waking up inside the flat. The front door didn’t open first, he’s sure of that. Someone got him from behind. Must have come out of the flat opposite–two steps and they were right behind him. Knocked him out, dragged him into the flat. He didn’t hear them, didn’t expect them. Now Tommy Scott’s walking up and down the corridor with Frank’s gun in his hand. What a disaster! Humiliation. Forty-four years in the business, since the day John ‘Reader’ Benson paid him buttons to beat the snot out of a scrawny racecourse bookie. Been in some tight spots since then. But nothing like this. This is too tight to move.

  Tommy’s just noticed that Frank’s awake. Might as well try to sit up. Tommy’s marching back along the corridor towards him. Twenty-six years of age, skinny, dark-haired and always tired-looking. Used to be a peddler. A street dealer. Used to go round the estates on a bicycle selling wraps to kids. A bicycle, for Christ’s sake! Of course nobody took him seriously. How Shug Francis saw anything in him is a mystery. Nevertheless, he did. Desperation
maybe. Anyone willing and able was welcome, regardless of ability. Jamieson’s stamped on all of Shug’s other efforts. Shug brought Tommy on board. Gave him a strong supply. Scott took it and set up his own little network. Frank’s underestimated him. He’s seeing that now. Judging him on what he’s done before. Not judging him on what he’s doing now. Still thinking of Scott as that greasy kid on the bike. Now Scott’s standing over Frank, pointing Frank’s own gun at him.

  ‘You’re gonna keep your mouth shut, okay. You’re gonna keep it shut.’ He sounds nervous. He should do. He’s moving away, trying to think. He doesn’t know what to do with Frank. If it was up to his dippy mate, Frank knows he’d be dead already. Scott’s just smart enough to realize this requires more thought. He needs to make the best of this. A chance has fallen into his lap. A chance to impress Shug, to move one step further up the ladder. Take your opportunities when they come, kid, they won’t come often. Scott might not realize it now, but he might never get another chance like this. Frank’s shaking his head. Don’t think of this like a pro, think of it like a victim. That’s what you are now. He’s become the kind of person he’s always destroyed. How do you get out of here? There isn’t an answer. Forty-four years in the business. Probably the best gunman in the city for thirty. Yet there’s no answer.

  Tommy’s under pressure like never before. Clueless is watching him, standing in the corridor. He’s not going to say or do anything if he can help it. He knows his place. Stand guard. If the old man gets up, knock him down. If Tommy asks you to go do something, then you go do it. That’s his level. They’ve been best mates since they were kids. Tommy’s always been smarter, the stronger personality. Tommy always looked out for Clueless, protected him. Made sure he shared Tommy’s successes. Now Tommy’s dragging Clueless to the top with him, and it’s fun. This is exciting. Lying in wait for the old guy. Holding the door of the flat opposite shut from the inside, but off the latch. Pulling it open slowly as the old crock’s knocking on Tommy’s door. One long step and a swipe. Hammering him on the back of the head with a metal pipe. It’s the sort of thrilling thing this life is all about.

  Doesn’t look like much, old Frank MacLeod. Short, grey-haired, lined old face. Some geriatric that Tommy reckons is after them. Peter Jamieson’s gunman. Would have been cool to have a gun for it. Tommy was smart, though. He knew exactly what the old man would do. Read him like a book. The flat opposite’s been empty for months. They use it all the time, hide stuff there, dump stuff there. Nobody’s going to move in–the place is dripping with damp, the walls are black with it. The old guy made it easy for them. Clueless went out the front and walked away from the building so that Frank would see him go. Then he snuck round the back and returned to the flat. All exciting stuff. Outwitting a hitman. Tommy doesn’t know what to do now, though. That’s a worry, but Clueless has confidence in him.

  Tommy’s been thinking about this moment all day. This is an opportunity. He’s looking back down the hall at Frank, watching the old man watching him. Got Frank’s own gun in his hand. Seems obvious. Kill him, get rid of the body. Common sense, surely. But what if there’s more? What if the best thing is to let Shug know that Frank’s here? Maybe Shug could learn things, important things. But maybe he would want Tommy to handle all that himself. You ask the questions, you get the information. Do it without letting anyone know. Get info, and then kill Frank. Then go to Shug with the info. Taking the initiative. That’s the thing they love. He’d be impressed with that. And pleased that he was kept out of the thing until the danger had passed.

  Frank’s watching. The kid has no idea what to do now. This pair set him up nicely, fair play to them for that. They just didn’t plan this far ahead. Failing to plot your moves is inexcusable. Unprofessional. The boy can do all the mental gymnastics he likes; Frank knows what the problem is. The next thing they have to do is kill him, and Tommy Scott’s never killed a man. Big step from being a peddler to a killer. Big step from cracking his skull to putting a bullet in it. They’re the scariest steps you can take in this business. You do it once, and people want you to do it again. There’s no going back. Scott knows there has to be a killing, but he doesn’t have the guts for it. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Why don’t you just hurry up and do it, boy,’ Frank’s saying to him. Surprising himself; he didn’t mean to provoke. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  Scott’s turning and glaring at him. Frank could have gone one of two ways. Could have tried to be nice, in the hope of keeping himself alive, but that seems pointless. Nice might buy time, but not life. Or he could try to goad the younger man into a mistake. That’s what he’s doing.

  ‘He’s right, we should shoot the prick,’ Clueless is saying suddenly. Voicing an unwelcome opinion.

  ‘Shut up,’ Tommy’s snapping back. ‘We do this in my time, not his. You shut your fucking mouth, old man. Won’t tell you again.’ Make the decision. You have to make the decision. Make the phone call.

  8

  David ‘Fizzy’ Waters is lying asleep in his bed, as any civilized person should at this hour. Something’s pushing at the edge of his awareness. A noise. Faint. He’s opening his eyes, sitting up. A mobile, ringing in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. There are two phones in there. Both pay-as-you-go, both only used by contacts. He’s pulling open the drawer, picking out the old phone with the lighted display. Some random mobile number he doesn’t recognize. Not usually a good thing. Getting out of bed, creeping out of the bedroom. He doesn’t want to wake his girlfriend, if he can avoid it. Out into the corridor, answering the phone. Could be anyone on the other end. You never know these days. Since Shug decided to fight his way into the drug trade there have been more unsavoury characters in his world than ever.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Fizzy, Mr Waters–it’s me, it’s Tommy Scott.’

  Speaking of unsavoury characters. A peddler with big ambitions. One of the few who was willing to try working a network for Shug. Lewis Winter taking a bullet to the skull scared most people off. Not Scott. He was enthusiastic. Ambition conquered fear and common sense. Thank goodness for that. Turns out he’s good at the job. It was unexpected, but he hasn’t put a foot wrong. Yet. He has a network of peddlers up and running and making money. Now he’s calling at ten past one in the morning, which suggests he may just have lost his footing.

  ‘I have a problem, but it might be a good problem.’ Scott sounds a little breathless. Sounds like he’s trying to keep the volume down. Fizzy’s closing his eyes. He’s never yet heard of a good problem.

  It used to be cars. Nothing else. Shug owns a collection of garages across the city, runs a solid, legitimate business. Makes enough money to be comfortable. Apparently, these days, comfortable isn’t enough. Started out stealing cars. Now there’s a network, the only meaningful one left in the city. Maybe the last large car network in the country. Car security gets better, making money from them gets harder. Someone steals the car, someone else resprays and retags it, someone else deals with electronic tracking, someone else creates a false history, someone else moves it south and someone else sells it. That’s a lot of someones to pay. Any more and there wouldn’t be a profit left for Shug. You can’t move the high-end cars that would yield bigger profits. Too distinctive. You can sell those abroad, but it’s a very specialist market that Shug has never quite cracked. So moving drugs around became attractive. Already moving vehicles, why not put something in them? But it’s hard. Just establishing yourself, getting credible, is treacherous. It brings a lot of challenging people into your life. People like Tommy Scott.

  ‘What’s the problem, Tommy?’ Fizzy’s asking in a whisper.

  ‘Frank MacLeod. You know Frank MacLeod? Well, he came after me, but me and Clueless were able to set him up. We’ve got him. He’s here. At my flat. He’s lying in the corridor.’

  ‘Dead?’ Fizzy’s asking with hope.

  ‘Nah, not dead. He’s alive. We cracked him on the head. Thing is, I thought you or Shug might
want to see him. Might want to talk to him. Could be a good opportunity to get some information from him.’

  And this is supposed to be a good problem. What the hell sort of information is Frank MacLeod going to give them? How could they ever trust a word that came out of his mouth? Any information from an old pro like MacLeod is useless. Guy like that, he’s loyal if he’s anything. Fizzy’s about to say something, but it’s dawning on him. Scott isn’t calling because he thinks they’ll want to talk to Frank. He’s calling because he wants someone else to come and kill him.

  He should be angry, but he’s not. Fizzy doesn’t blame the boy for wanting someone else to do that job. Ugly work for ugly souls. He’s thinking of Glen Davidson, and the night he went to kill Calum MacLean. Fizzy drove him there, waited outside. Davidson never returned. Instead, one of Jamieson’s thugs turned up with a van. He and MacLean drove off with Davidson’s body. Maybe, professionally, Scott should take responsibility for Frank. Maybe he should pull the trigger himself, prove that he can. He caught him, he kills him. Fizzy wouldn’t do it, though, and he’s not going to force someone else.

  ‘Listen, kid, you’ve done well, getting him there. He’s at your own flat?’