by Tony Black
At the door the man tried to catch McArdle’s attention. He leaned forward and made a gesture with his shaking hand. McArdle ignored him, walking out the door and onto London Road. The street was busy. It was early afternoon; giro day at the post office had attracted a crowd. As McArdle walked he felt his thighs rub together. He had the squat build of a weightlifter, could handle himself: they called him ‘the Deil’. Those that didn’t know him thought it was a contraction of Devlin, a play on the Scots for Devil, but those who did know him knew the name was hard earned. McArdle liked people to know that about him.
The thin man followed him up the road. McArdle caught sight of him shuffling into doorways and under scaffolding as he tried to keep a respectful distance. He had told Barry Tierney never to stop him in the street; he’d warned the loser more than once. He felt his feet stamping harder with every step, wished he hadn’t put on trainers — boots would have been better for bursting this stupid prick’s head. His shoulders tensed as a haar shot up Maryfield on its way to the tourists trekking Arthur’s Seat. He crossed over the road, onto West Norton Place, and took the side street at the old tech college. He turned to see Tierney pegging it up behind him. McArdle ducked into wasteground behind a Shell garage and waited. In a few moments he started to hear the shuffling gait, the heavy breathing. He reached out and pulled Tierney into the back of the disused building.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’
Tierney flinched, brought hands up to his head. ‘I’ve got money… I’ve got money.’
McArdle slapped him; one slap, it toppled him. Tierney fell to the ground and curled up. ‘I’m sorry… I know you said, but I’ve got money.’ He dug in the pockets of his torn Adidas hoodie. ‘Here, here…’ It was forty, maybe fifty pounds.
McArdle snatched it. ‘What’s this?’ He slapped the notes and his fist off Tierney’s head. The force of it scraped his knuckles. Blood streamed from a gash on the thin man’s forehead. ‘You’re into me for more than fifty quid!’
‘I know… I know… I just thought-’
‘You thought what?’ McArdle stamped his foot on his ribcage. Tierney coughed heavily. ‘I’ll tell you when to think, y’piece of shit. Get it?… Eh? Get it?’ McArdle was ready to end Tierney’s days but the noise of a car parking up at the Shell garage changed his mind. He leaned forward, grabbed Tierney by the neck and yanked him to his feet.
‘Look, I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’ve got your money… I can soon get all of it!’
McArdle released his grip, poked Tierney’s chest. ‘What are you on about?’
Tierney gasped, stepped back. ‘When, y’know, Vee and me had that deal with you — remember that time?’
McArdle’s lower lip drooped. He was confused. Was Tierney saying what he thought he was? ‘You mean you and Vee…? You’re not saying you want to pay me off like that again?’
Tierney stepped back. His face twitched and ticced as he brushed himself down with his bony fingers. ‘Yeah, yeah. I mean, no… last time you paid more than that. More than we owe you.’
McArdle put out a hand, resting it on Tierney’s shoulder. He was interested enough, but unsure if he could trust him. ‘This isn’t some bloody scam, ’cause if it is, I’ll burst you all over this town.’
Tierney double-blinked, quick movements, unnatural. ‘No. Straight up.’
‘And you want to sell to me?’
‘Sell, yeah. We do.’
McArdle closed his mouth, brought a hand up to his head. He ran fingertips over his crown — the tight cut of the razor felt good to the touch. He walked away from Tierney; he didn’t trust him. He was trash, a junkie. His girlfriend was a junkie too, hardly the type to be doing any sort of business with, never mind one like this.
‘Are you sure Vee’s game for this?’
Tierney shrugged. He looked to his left, then his right; his thin shoulders poked through his top. ‘Yeah, she’s sound.’
McArdle felt a wariness creep up on him. He didn’t like getting too involved with this sort of people. Taking their money was fine, but any more than that was asking for trouble. But he had dealt with this pair before. Maybe it would be all right. ‘I’m warning you, Barry, if you’re up to something and I-’
He butted in, ‘I’m up to nothing… we want paying. Nothing else. Just a few quid, eh.’
A laugh, splutters. ‘You think there’s a drink in it for you? You pair of greedy bastards.’
Tierney tried to smile but his heart didn’t look to be in it. His teeth were yellowed and broken when he showed them. The hollows in his cheeks deepened as he widened his grin. ‘Well, last time…’
‘Times change, Barry boy… times change.’ That took the smirk off his face. The state of him, thought McArdle, he’d sell his own flesh and blood for a fix with a smile on his face. Well, a sort of smile. Even for McArdle this was low; Tierney was the worst of trash. ‘We’ll see.’
Tierney arked up, ‘But-’
‘No fucking ifs or buts. We’ll see.’ McArdle needed to think about it. Finding the buyer was no trouble, and the money was good, but he didn’t trust Tierney. Junkies were bad news. To a one, they were bad luck. Carried it round with them.
‘Well, what about just now?’
McArdle shook his head, grabbed Tierney by the face. ‘You scrounging, that it?’
‘I gave you fifty.’
‘That wouldn’t clear you a week’s interest on what you and Vee owe me.’
‘But-’
McArdle pushed back Tierney’s face. The junkie stumbled a few paces and fell onto the slabs. ‘You’re nothing but trash, y’know that?’ McArdle dug in his pocket, pulled out a couple of wraps and threw them at the addict. Tierney scrabbled about for them, picked up the wraps fast and pushed himself up. He struggled to find any purchase, his shoes slipping on the wet slabs as his thin arms stretched out behind him. ‘You won’t regret this, Deil,’ he said.
‘Get out my sight.’
‘Will you tell me soon, then?’
‘I said fuck off… Get out my sight.’
McArdle watched Tierney struggle to his feet, then saw his slope-shoulders jink round the corner. He moved to sit on a low brick wall, trying to gather his thoughts. It was simple enough taking cash for a few wraps, but what the junkie was offering was something else. It was complicated, fraught with potential pitfalls, and meant working with more people than he was used to — and he was used to being in full control, in charge. The Germans would be the ones paying up, so they’d have all the power. He didn’t like that. Still, the money sang to him. It was very good money last time and maybe he could ask for more now. McArdle knew the junkie’s offer was too good to be passed up. It was chancy, always was, but wasn’t everything? He removed his mobile. As he delved into his contacts, and dialled, McArdle was already counting the cash in his mind.
Ringing.
The line was answered on the third chime.
‘ Hallo.’
‘Gunter… that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Devlin McArdle.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Just enquiring… If the supply channel was to open up again, would you be interested?’
There was no sound except static on the line for a few moments, then, ‘Interested?… I believe we would be.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes, Mr McArdle… I think we could almost guarantee it.’
Chapter 5
Barry Tierney was sweating and flushed when he returned home. As he slammed the front door of the flat behind him Vee appeared in the hallway. Her dirty blonde hair had been scraped back and tied in an elastic band. Her eyes bulged and watered. The edges of her mouth were cracked and scabbed. She grabbed him. ‘Did you get it?’
Tierney pushed past her. ‘Leave me be.’ He shuffled towards the bathroom and closed the door quickly behind him. Vee followed, banged on the door. He felt disturbed to be alone in the small room; it was full of demons, but his bladder ached and there was no
where else to go.
‘Barry, you bastard… Open this door.’
‘Shut it.’As he relieved himself he heard the child start to scream in the other room. ‘See to that kid, for fuck’s sake.’
Vee continued to bang on the door. ‘Barry, open up… You better not be holding out on me!’
He shook out the last drops of urine, pulled up his joggers. His hands were shaking at the prospect of the wraps he’d taken from the Deil. He touched the sides of his head, tried to think, but nothing came. He ran fingers through his hair, then tucked his hands beneath his arms, but the process did nothing for him. He couldn’t concentrate in this place. He didn’t want to be alone in there but there was a racket going on outside that he couldn’t face.
‘Shut it, Vee, I’m warning you, shut the noise up or I’ll put you through that fucking wall.’
The banging stopped.
He heard Vee sliding down the back of the door, then her tears as she sobbed at the gap above the carpet. She had been crying hysterically the night before, but that was for another reason. She probably wanted to block it out too.
‘Barry, you can’t leave me here if you’re holding… You just can’t.’
‘Is that all you’re bothered about? Eh, is it?’
Her voice lowered. ‘I need a hit, Barry… more than ever.’
‘We know why that is, don’t we.’
She snivelled, ‘Why are you doing this?’
Tierney ran the taps in the sink, trying to drown out her shrill voice. He let the sink fill up, dropped in his hands, then splashed his face. He thought about dunking his head, blocking out the world, but he knew a better way.
‘I saw him, by the way,’ Tierney yelled, ‘… in case you’re interested, I saw the Deil.’
Silence.
Slowly, the sound of Vee shuffling on the other side of the door came. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me all right.’ He smiled to himself: he had the upper hand again. She was always easier to manipulate, to control, when he had something to hold over her. He couldn’t recall ever having anything as weighty as this, though.
‘You told him about…?’
‘Of course I didn’t fucking tell him. Do you think I’m mental?’
Vee stumbled over the words: ‘Th-then how… I mean, what did you say?’ She sounded worried now; he could hear the fear pitched in her voice.
‘I told him what we agreed.’
She had no response to that — of course she didn’t, she couldn’t argue with him. Tierney heard Vee start to move again. She was rocking, her back pressing on the other side of the door. With each movement the sound carried pressure towards him. He felt the walls in the small bathroom closing him in. He peered at the bath, scrubbed clean for once. Tierney couldn’t remember the bath looking so clean — it was bright white, sparkling. He looked in. He didn’t want to, but felt compelled to. A smell of bleach caught in his nostrils. He couldn’t stay there any more, opened the door. ‘Get up… See to that kid!’
Vee held on to Tierney’s leg. ‘Did you score? Did you? Did you score, Barry?’
He shook her off, lashed out with his foot, caught her on the solar plexus. She gasped for breath, fumbling on the carpet with her fingers splayed as if she was looking for something. ‘Barry… I need some. Don’t, don’t…’ She seemed to find strength from somewhere and raised herself to face him. She grabbed the sleeves of Tierney’s hoodie. ‘Please, please, Barry… I’ll do anything.’
‘Settle that fucking kid.’
‘I will. I will. I promise… Just give me something.’
The sight of her disgusted him; he wanted her away from him. He didn’t want to look at her ever again. Her face reminded him of everything that was wrong with his life and why he needed to escape from it. Tierney delved into his pocket and pulled out a wrap. ‘There, get fired into that… Get out my sight.’ He watched her scurry like a rodent for scraps, padding the floor on her hands and knees. When she located the wrap her face changed instantly. She became suffused with desire. All the previous whining and begging had been for show, Tierney knew it. He hated her for it. When he was on the programme, a key worker had told him that everyone hates the one thing in others that they hate in themselves. He hadn’t understood her, had asked her to explain and was told it was like living with someone who pointed out your flaws all the time: they dragged you to the mirror and showed you them. When he understood, he hated Vee more; she made him hate himself, what he’d become.
Tierney knew it didn’t pay you to think. After all he’d been through, after all he’d seen, he didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to think about who he was or who Vee was because he knew they were both nothing. It was better not to think. Better to forget. To block it all out.
He took the remaining wrap from his pocket and went through to the front room. The curtains were drawn and the place sat in semi-darkness. He could hear the baby crying where she lay in the top drawer of the dresser, but he didn’t look to that corner of the room. He climbed onto the mattress and rolled up his sleeve. A burnt spoon and a lighter fell onto the floor as he manoeuvred. He picked them up, collected the rest of his works and bit the leather belt between his teeth.
As his eyes closed, nothing mattered any more.
Chapter 6
When he was still in uniform, barely twenty and still pimply, Brennan had made his first visit to a Muirhouse crime scene. It was nothing like he’d imagined, growing up on the west coast and watching The Sweeney. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The job, life. It was supposed to be better.
‘I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight,’ Wullie Stuart had told him.
They said young Brennan fancied himself back then, said he was full of it. A typical Weegie, even though he was from Ayr. Anyone west of Corstorphine was a Weegie to this lot. ‘I can handle it,’ he told the detective sergeant.
‘Are you sure, son? There’s no shame in holding back.’
‘I can handle it.’
The crime scene was in a high-rise. There had been a call from neighbours about a domestic. Loud roars, shouting and screaming. The usual. Uniform had attended and then CID had been called. Brennan had pestered the officers to get a hand-up. He wanted to learn at their elbow — it was the best way to learn anything, his father had told him that.
‘Okay, then. But take a hold of this.’
Brennan looked at the sergeant’s hand. He was holding out an old Tesco carrier.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Your lunch.’
‘But I’ve had my lunch, sir.’
‘Exactly.’
When realisation dawned, Brennan shook his head. ‘You’re all right… Keep it.’
‘Okay.’ Wullie nodded. ‘Okay.’
The young uniform followed the detective sergeant up the grimy stairwell. It smelled of piss and stale tobacco. The walls were daubed with graffiti, large illiterate swabs for or against Hibs and Hearts, numbers to call for blow jobs, threats of violence. None of it fazed the twenty-year-old, but something told him he was about to enter a new realm. He knew he was going to see something he’d never seen before. Would it change him? No, never. How could it? He was well equipped for anything they threw at him.
The door had been booted — the hinges hung on bent screws. Two panels had been caved in — knuckles maybe? He’d have said a shoulder or a firm kick, but there was blood smeared there. Knuckles, then, so a junkie perhaps… someone too out of it to know they’d broken every bone in their hand putting in the door. There was more blood inside. And a stench. A smell Brennan had never encountered before. It filled the nostrils and seemed to get right inside your head. He’d never known a smell like it; it came loaded with suggestions. It wasn’t an acrid smell or an uncomfortable smell, one that made you want to put your nose into your sleeve, but it wasn’t something he’d like to keep regular contact with. It unnerved him. Years later, he’d acknowledge it as the smell of poverty. The smell of lost hope, of squalor and ab
andonment and dissipation. Of all those things, and something else, something more sinister.
‘Oh, Christ!’
Brennan knew his mouth had drooped. He felt dumb, unable to move.
‘Get down!’
There was a flurry of bodies; a black flash crossed the room. There was a man at the window. He struggled with the handle, and suddenly it opened and a gust blew in. Cigarette ash flew into the room from a large smoked-glass ashtray by the ledge. Brennan felt lost.
‘Who let the fucking dog in?’ shouted Wullie. ‘This is a fucking murder scene!’
Brennan saw the dog, a small, stout Staffordshire bull terrier type. It was on the floor tearing at something. He didn’t get a full look at the dog — his eyes were fixed elsewhere. On the floor was a familiar form — it looked like a woman. There was a dress, floral-print. Yellow flowers, with white centres, splattered with dark red marks. There was a head, and hair. Pale brown hair; the colour of his mother’s. But there was something missing. The face. Where the face should be was a pulpy, black mess. The eyes were there, he could see them, but not the whites. The blood vessels had ruptured and the eyes sat like black eight-balls. There was no sign of any skin, only a prominent white shard of bone set in the middle of the face where it had supported the base of the nose.
‘No, leave it!’ Wullie grabbed at the dog; there were growls, Wullie roared, called the beast a bastard. He pulled at its collar. It took some time for Brennan to draw his attention to the ruckus. When he did it took some time for his mind to process what was happening. The dog was attached to the woman’s side, tugging with its mouth; it wasn’t about to let go. Sinewy, blood-red strands of flesh stretched like glue as the dog’s jaws were prised apart. The corpse seemed to move, almost come to life as the contest to extricate the animal continued.
Brennan heard sounds, words: ‘It’s the guts!’
‘ What?’
‘The dog’s eating the guts.’
‘Get away!’
‘I’m telling you…’
Brennan heard a cigarette being lit; one of the officers laughed at the scene before them. Then the dog broke free, ran for the door. Brennan felt it brush his trouser leg. He looked down, saw another black blur.