by Jay Stringer
ALSO BY JAY STRINGER
Old Gold
Runaway Town
Lost City
Ways To Die In Glasgow
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Jay Stringer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503939714
ISBN-10: 1503939715
Cover design by Lisa Horton
Contents
PART ONE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
PART TWO
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
FIRST INTERMISSION
CAL’S LOG
PART THREE
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
SECOND INTERMISSION
PART FOUR
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
PART FIVE
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
EIGHTY-THREE
EIGHTY-FOUR
EIGHTY-FIVE
EIGHTY-SIX
EIGHTY-SEVEN
EIGHTY-EIGHT
EIGHTY-NINE
NINETY
NINETY-ONE
NINETY-TWO
NINETY-THREE
NINETY-FOUR
NINETY-FIVE
NINETY-SIX
NINETY-SEVEN
NINETY-EIGHT
NINETY-NINE
ONE HUNDRED
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PART ONE
June 6th
‘The first time you kill someone, you realise you don’t need to suffer fools gladly.’
—Fergus
ONE
CAL
11:00
Fuckin’ bawbags.
This is not cool. Not cool at-fucking-all. You think you can trust someone, then they go and screw you over.
‘What’s this?’ I say.
Being all polite, like. Not threatening to stove their heads in with a fuckin’ spoon. I’d specifically said to them, get me a wire, like in the movies. Something subtle. Something we could hide in a lassie’s clothing, or fit into her bag. Maybe one of they transmitters that sends out the signal to some dude waiting in the next room with the recorder and a swat team.
So, aye, I sent Baz and Nazi Steve out to get me a wire. And the bampots have come back with a Walkman.
‘That’s all they had,’ Nazi Steve says. ‘We walked all around the Barras, and that’s the closest thing. But look—’ He takes the Walkman from me and points to a red button. ‘It’s got a record button.’
‘Doesn’t need a microphone neither,’ Baz says. ‘It’s got one built in.’
‘So yer lassie won’t have to worry about all those wires,’ Nazi Steve says.
They’re nodding at what each of them says, encouraging each other, like a couple fucking special cases on medication day.
‘What are yis on?’ I say. ‘This is boggin. Might as well have bought some fucking Fisher fucking Price kiddies’ toy. Look at this, man.’ I open the lid and look inside. It’s proper old-school. ‘You didn’t even get a cassette tape to go in the cunting ’hing. Where am I going to get a cassette fae?’
They look at each other. I know what’s coming next, but neither of them wants to be the first to go.
It’s Baz who fronts up with a shrug. ‘Probably get a good deal on one at the Barras,’ he says.
The whole thing is going to pot. It had been such a good idea. I just needed this one thing to go right, and then I could pull off my big job.
My masterwork.
Classy and smooth.
My Babycham.
I find the conspiracy of a lifetime, enough information to blackmail half of Glesga. I could be living in gravy for the rest of my days. King of the swingers.
Now I’ve got to go and meet Paula, send her in without a decent wire. How the fuck is she going to get what we need without it?
I wish Joe was here. Joe Pepper. He’d know what to do. He used to work for my old da, practically one of the family, like. We supported him while he was at uni, started him on the road to being a hot-shit lawyer, friend to the stars. He used to sort shit like this out all the time. Saved my ass loads. Even from my da. Joe stopped me getting a skelping many times fer all the daft shit that I pull.
But now he’s got a good job in the city. Wants nothing to do with us.
Fuck it.
Fuck him.
I don’t need anyone’s help. And deffo not these pure tossers, neither. I mean, who the fuck goes around with a name like ‘Nazi Steve’? At least ‘Baz’ is a wee bit more understandable, since his uncle was called Barry. Steve’s not even a Nazi.
I put the Walkman in my pocket. No point chucking it. Right now, it’s the best thing I have, and maybe I can find a way to make this whole thing work. I stand up to leave, say, ‘See you cunts later,’ then head out to the pub.
Aff to see a lassie about some crime.
TWO
CAL
12:00
Paula’s nervous. Which is un
derstandable, like. I’m blackmailing her into pretending to be a hooker.
Other than being a total dirty liar, she’s probably a nice lass. Cute as fuck, if you like the rock chick thing. I do. Well, I like the whole woman thing, so she fits the bill.
She’s fae Belfast. Or somewhere around there, anyway. A proper tough lass. She makes the people fae Bridgeton look like pussies. I met her about a year ago. She was fresh off the boat.
(Literally. She came over on the ferry. I’m not a fucking moron.)
Paula made on like she was looking fer some fun, join in the scene over here. Played up her connections with the old boys back in Belfast, made herself sound all cool an’ shite.
And for a long time, she was.
She got in tight with Gilbert Neil and that lot, doing the property jobs, burning down buildings. She was good at it. Didnae mind getting her hands dirty, and always managed to get away before the polis turned up.
Paula didnae touch drugs at first, and she wasn’t always asking annoying questions. She just drank, partied, fucked and crimed it up with the rest of us.
But it’s all been a lie.
I know her secret.
Made the mistake of getting stoned and starting to talk too much, didn’t she? Told me every’hin’. Told the lads, too, but they didnae believe her. But I do. I’ve got her.
She’s not quite so tough now, and she’s going to do this wee job for me, so that I’ll keep quiet about what I know. Or, that’s what she thinks, anyway. It’s just this wee job for now. Then whatever the next thing is. At some point, it’ll be worth my while to tell people what she’s hiding, but I can get some benefit for myself for a while first.
Paula’s waiting for me when I get to the pub. The Pit in Cessnock. It’s an old shitey place, full of idiots and piss stains, but it’s a cop-free zone, and anything goes.
She’s tarted up in a small black dress, but she’s got her knee-high boots on and I can see her leather jacket on the chair next to her. It’s not quite the look we’d agreed on, but it’ll do. Between that and the Walkman, it’s time I just get on with things and see how the cookie crumbles.
Paula already has a drink in front of her, so I head to the bar and get a pint of T for myself. I sit down opposite her and give my nicest, least creepy smile.
‘How ya doin, ya daft cunt?’ I say.
She flinches a little. I know she’s fighting back the urge to call me out for saying that to her. I like to needle people like that. Find buttons and then push them regular, like, see how long before someone snaps.
Except, she cannae snap. Not while I’m keeping her secret. So I’m just being a dick, I suppose.
‘Did you get a wire?’ she says.
I slide the Walkman out of my pocket and on the table between us.
She leans back and rolls her eyes. If there’s a way she can put any more distance between her and the Walkman without leaving the room, I’d like to see it.
‘No way,’ she says. ‘Are you nuts?’
‘You probably won’t need it anyway,’ I say, all calm and soothing. ‘The guys are going to have the stuff there for you to steal. The recording was just going to be a backup. Dumbo’s feather, kinda like, just so’s you felt you were doing something more.’
‘Something more?’ She leans forward. ‘Listen here, you daft prick. I’m doing this thing because I have to, not because I like being around you. I’m the one going in there. I’m the one who’s about to fuck a guy and rob him. You can keep kidding on like you’re some kind of criminal fucking genius here, but all you are is a twat blackmailing someone.’
She stands up and pulls on her coat. Stares at me for a second.
‘And when this is done,’ she says, ‘don’t think I won’t be finding a way to get back at yis.’
She storms out.
Takes the Walkman, though, doesn’t she?
Win.
THREE
SAM
15:51
The black cab clipped me as it overtook. Its wing mirror brushed my elbow and then the bullhorn handlebars of my bike. The cabbie didn’t even slow down to see if I was okay.
A year earlier, that would have been enough to take me out of the saddle and dump my arse on the pavement. You toughen up fast if you ride a bike in Glasgow. I gripped the bars tight to stop the wobble on the front wheel, and kept pedalling.
That was the first lesson I’d learned on a fixed-gear bike. Pedal into the storm. The natural instinct is to stop your legs pumping the minute you hit a problem. Coasting feels like the right thing to do, and a normal bike will allow you to do that. At that point you may as well be on a runaway mine cart. A fixie doesn’t let you coast. Nope. Pedal harder. Keep in control. And, even on the streets of Glasgow, don’t back down from anything.
Don’t show any fear.
It’s like Mad Max out here sometimes.
Except I’m better looking. And not Australian. And don’t need gasoline. Also, my name’s not Max, and I’m not a man. So, it’s not really anything like Mad Max, but it’s a fun thing to say.
The cab dropped into the lane right in front of me, then slowed down to take the corner onto Glasgow Bridge. They were really imaginative when they named that one, right?
I kept the bike under control with my right hand, and straightened up in the saddle. With my left hand, I pulled my keys loose from the pocket, and extended my arm out to the side, stretching the elastic cord that was clipped to my shorts. As the cab slowed down before taking the turn, I let my keys touch the side of the car, and scraped them along the black surface.
This time, the driver noticed the cyclist.
And it was glorious.
He honked the horn and turned to swear at me out of his window. Thick veins bulged on his neck, beneath a shaved, rounded head that carried white scars among the stubble. I waved at him and smiled, then got my head down and picked up speed as I crossed the junction at the bottom of Jamaica Street. On the left, as I cycled under the railway overpass, was a small pedestrianised area. Skater kids and Goths gathered there to do, well, whatever it is skater kids and Goths tend to do. They’d seen my revenge on the cab, and they clapped and cheered as I passed.
My earphones beeped to tell me I had a call. I keep them in while I’m cycling, with my phone strapped into a small pouch on the front strap of my messenger bag. I pressed the button to accept the call.
‘You’re running late.’ My wee brother, Phil. ‘You won’t make it.’
I was delivering a rush order, and I had twenty minutes to get it from a law firm on the Saltmarket, on one side of Glasgow, to another firm on Blythswood Street, on the other side of town.
I made a fart noise with my lips. ‘I’ll make it, don’t worry.’
‘No, you won’t. You’re still down on Broomielaw and you’ve only got six minutes left. You should have gone the way I told you.’
We run two small businesses out of an industrial unit in the Gorbals. One is a detective agency that we took over from our father; the other is a courier firm. Phil operates as the dispatcher for both. We have three other part-time riders out delivering packages across the city. I split my time between the courier work and the investigations. Phil monitors all of the riders using the GPS on our phones. It’s easier for him to allocate the jobs when he can see where we are.
‘Which one of us is out here on the bike?’
I overtook another cyclist. An overweight guy on a shiny new bike. It looked to have a million gears, and he was decked out in the latest cool Lycra from the team that won the Tour de France. I put my right arm out to indicate a turn, and then drifted across into the next lane. I didn’t wait for an invitation. Cars don’t slow down for cyclists. The trick is to just go for it. Let them adjust.
I drifted again, into the filter lane to turn into York Street. The lights turned red and I pressed back on the pedals, locking my knees to bring the bike to a stop.
‘What’s that?’ Phil said. ‘Sounds like you’re stopping.’
‘Traffic laws, kiddo. Don’t worry.’
I disconnected the call and took the chance to take a swig of water from a bottle I kept in my bag. I could feel a car coming up behind me. It was getting too close. Drivers will get right up against the back wheel of a bike in a way they wouldn’t dare for a car.
Then the engine revved.
I looked up at the light, but it was still red.
The engine revved again, and this time the car behind nudged my wheel, almost forcing me off the bike. I turned round to swear at the driver.
It was the taxi I’d keyed. He must have taken a turn to come back across the river. Now he was right on top of me.
The lights changed.
FOUR
SAM
15:54
The taxi pushed forward again. The bike jolted beneath me. Another push like that would either knock me off or warp the wheel. I looked at the driver through the sun glare of the windshield. His eyes were flared and his face was pale.
He wasn’t acting rationally. This was full-on road rage.
There was a line of cars behind the taxi. I couldn’t look to them for help, because all they were seeing right now was a cyclist getting in the way.
I pushed off as the taxi charged forward, skidding my back wheel out of the way just in time. We were in the right-hand filter lane, but I veered left. My pedal clipped the concrete kerb on the other side of the junction as I squeezed between a Volvo and the central divider. The driver blasted his horn and swerved away into the next lane, causing the van behind him to slam on the breaks and let rip on his own horn.
The squeal of more tyres, and the horns grew louder and more insistent. I took a look behind me, and saw that it was the taxi causing the disruption, as my road-rage pal had swerved to follow me, cutting in across the lane of traffic. There was one car between us, but I could see he was already looking to turn into the next lane so that he could draw level with me.
I hunkered low to the frame, and started to power down on the pedals. I swerved into the left-hand lane, which made the traffic behind slow down and block off the cab driver’s options for a few seconds.
I’m a good cyclist. I’m fit and fast. For all that, though, I couldn’t compete with a car engine over any long distance. It would only be a matter of time before the taxi caught me in a straight race.
A gap opened beside me, and I drifted into that lane before a car could fill it. There were now two vehicles between the taxi and me. The traffic in the left-hand lane sped up. The drivers wanted to put some distance between them and us. I risked another look behind and saw the taxi turn into that lane and speed up.