THE SAM BRYSON COLLECTION

by McLean, Russel D; Chercover, Sean

  Davey said, “What’d they do tae my girl?”

  I felt confused and sluggish, his words taking a moment to register. “Davey, what the hell…?”

  “What’d they do tae her?” His voice was slurred with drink.

  “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “We’ll talk now.”

  I slipped out of bed. Ros, awake now as well, looked at me and her brow creased gently with concern.

  “You need to get some rest, Davey. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “We’ll talk now!” He sounded like a cornered animal, snarling at me down the line. And then: “Christ, Sam, please, we need tae…”

  I said, “Davey, tell me where you are.”

  ***

  Mick the Mick’s door had been heaved off its hinges. Like a tornado had swept through the building with deadly intent.

  No one else around. The neighbours maybe thinking it better to keep themselves to themselves. Or else they were so used to the sounds of violence in the night that none of them even thought about calling the police.

  I walked in.

  Mick the Mick was on the floor, his body shuddering gently, tears mixing with blood on his face. A right mess. Worse than I’d left him. And – this made me stop in my tracks – a look of gratitude when I walked in.

  Davey was on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. His fingers and hands stained with Mick’s blood. He was bright red, a nice sweat worked up. Dressed in a white t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. If it wasn’t for the location and the blood he could have been relaxing after a workout.

  “Irish here wouldn’t have lasted long in the ring, aye?”

  “Aye, maybe there’s that.”

  “Any one of my lads couldae killed him. One blow. Knocked that sorry head ae his right off his shoulders.” He looked meaningfully towards Mick, who whimpered and ducked his head into his chest. “That mean I’m getting sloppy as I’m getting on?”

  “No,” I said. “It means… it means you know what you’re doing.”

  “Nah,” said Davey. “I want tae kill him. Knock his block right off.”

  “Then why call me?”

  “When I’ve had a few drinks, like, I get emotional.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Chrissakes,” Mick whimpered, “I don’t want to die!”

  Davey flicked his cigarette at Mick. Caught the poor sod in the face with the ash end. Mick screamed. “Christ, lad,” said Davey, “Keep your gob shut!”

  “You called me,” I said, “because you don’t really want to kill him.”

  “That so?” Davey laughed hard.

  “Aye, its so.” I stepped forward. “I know you feel like you could do it. Like you should do it. And a prick like Mick, thinking about what he did, aye, he’d deserve it, too.”

  “Aw, Jesus.”

  I turned on the lad, snarled at him. “Shut your bloody mouth, or Davey’s the least of your worries!”

  Mick whimpered.

  Davey laughed.

  I stepped forward again. Taking it slow. “But, Davey, this isn’t how the world works.”

  “Aye, what, I call the police?”

  “Sure, you call the police.”

  “And they slap him on the wrist?”

  “I give you my word, they’ll feed him to the bloody lions.”

  Davey looked at Mick. His body was shaking, his muscles bunching. “Jesus, Sam, if only it were true.”

  “Kirtsy’s alive, Davey. She’ll talk, in her own time, and the police are going to lock this bastard up.”

  “Room and board and three square bloody meals a day?” Davey sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it. “What kindae punishment is that?”

  “Aye, that’s it,” I said. “Tell yourself how cushy it is in prison. That he’s going to be treated like royalty. Because it’s all crap, Davey. He’s going to be screwed over in there. Even if I have to use my own connections to make sure of it.” I was right in front of him now. I caught his eyes with mine and hoped he wouldn’t see any weakness. “And what good does it do Kirsty if you end up inside instead of this worthless bag of shite?”

  Davey tried to look past me. I stayed in the way.

  He got to his feet. His muscles kept bunching. I thought of springs uncoiling, wondered if I’d have time to get out the way.

  And he moved.

  I’d seen him knock young lads on their arses. Not even trying. In this state, I wondered if he’d prove how serious he was about knocking my block off.

  But the punch never landed.

  Instead he pushed himself against me, his head against my chest. I thought of boxers in the ring, getting close to the other guy so he couldn’t get in a punch. How sometimes they could look like they were embracing each other.

  Davey roared.

  The sound was muffled.

  It hurt worse than any punch.

  ***

  Three days later:

  Davey was on bail. Pending trial. Facing, as he’d said, a slapped wrist. I told him time and again he was a lucky bastard.

  Every time he gave me this look that was somewhere between accepting and pissed off.

  Mick the Mick on the other hand, he was facing a number of charges. If they couldn’t get one to stick, they’d get another. Sandy told me he wouldn’t give up on this one till Mick got what was coming.

  Maybe he hadn’t lifted a finger against Kirsty.

  But he was responsible for her.

  The lass herself was still in hospital. Her face was pale and puffy and every so often she would shiver uncontrollably beneath the tightly tucked sheets like someone had turned the heating down past freezing.

  I would watch her from the end of the ward, but never approach her. The nurses would watch me in turn, perhaps wondering what I was doing, but always enough doubt in their minds to leave me alone.

  ***

  Davey was allowed to visit her.

  At first, he kept his distance from her bed, watching her, his body screaming impotence – a need to act and no ability to do so.

  And then she said something. I couldn’t hear the words from where I stood, but I saw her lips move and her father stagger like he’d received the worst sucker punch of his life.

  But he pressed on towards her. Reached out and took her hand.

  The touch seemed to steady him.

  And for a moment – just a moment – I felt a strange elation. Like maybe things could work out after all. And in a world like this, any chance of redemption or resolution or even the smallest of happy endings is a minor miracle. Cause enough for celebration.

  I watched them for a moment more, before I turned on my heels and left the hospital.

  FLESH AND BLOOD

  (Collateral Damage Anthology, 2011)

  Dundee, Scotland

  Saturday 17 June, 2006

  2254

  Ros was watching TV when I got in.

  We’d been living together for six months. After spending years in separate apartments, it reached point where we were just switching between two places like we no longer had any need for privacy.

  Coming home to Ros made me feel…

  Complete.

  “Samuel James Bryson, You smell like a brewery,” she said, her Alabama accent softening out the harsh Scots syllables of my name..

  “Sandy had some news.”

  Sandy. My oldest friend. A DI on the local force, and now heading for greener pastures, joining the SDEA, Scotland’s very own Serious and Organised. I’d met Sandy for drinks at the Phoenix, a place that had, for many years, been our regular watering hole. Guess it was the ideal place for him to break the news.

  Ros gestured for me to come over. She didn’t mind the drink. Not tonight, anyway. I didn’t feel too bad, really. Despite the apparent smell, I could have been drinking water all night. I moved onto the couch. She shifted position, laid her head on my legs, looking up at me. I absentmindedly brushed at her hair with one hand.

  We didn’t say anything.


  We didn’t need to.

  Here, alone with Ros, I felt contented. Safe.

  “How much did you have?” It wasn’t an accusation.

  “Whatever you want to talk about,” I said, “I can handle it.”

  “You’ve had a day of big news,” she said.

  I closed my eyes. She was right, of course. Sandy leaving was going to take an adjustment. But at the same time, I’d accepted that the world changes and people move on. I’d known Sandy since High School. We’d joined the force together. When I set up in the private sector, he’d thrown jobs my way every once in a while. Nothing dodgy, but he knew as well as anyone there are times when the police can’t help you.

  I said, “It’s an adjustment. But no one’s life stays the same forever.”

  She shifted, then. Uncomfortably. Said, “You know what day tomorrow is, babe?

  “The eighteenth.”

  She smiled. “Father’s day,” and then she took my hand in hers, gently guided my palm down to her stomach.

  It took me a moment to realise what she was saying.

  Sunday

  18 June

  0845

  I leave Ros sleeping in the flat, slipping my way out as quietly as possible.

  After all, it may be Father’s Day. But it’s also the day of rest. I figure she deserves that.

  In the car, I can’t stop thinking about the night before. About what her pregnancy means for us. We’ve talked about starting a family so many times, and I guess I’ve always been the one who was most resistant. Because I worry about the reality of bringing life into the world.

  Work long enough as an investigator and a kind of cynical rot seeps into your thought. You see the worst people are capable of committing and you ask yourself how anyone could even hope to bring up a child in a world where people can do terrible things to those they profess to love with even a second’s hesitation.

  Ros gives me hope, of course. She reminds me of the good in people, of the best intentions. She’s no angel – I don’t think she’d be with me if she was – but there is something in the way she sees the world that reminds me there is more to life than the shades of grey I encounter every day.

  I look at myself in the rear view mirror.

  I’m smiling.

  The sight surprises me.

  And in an odd way acts as a reassurance

  ***

  I drive out to the west of the city, park on a suburban road just behind a small, blue Fiat. It’s a few years old, rust beginning to set in the wheel arches. In short, the car’s lived-in, but not yet ready to become a wreck.

  I get out of my own car and walk to the driver’s side window. It winds down, and Jamie looks out at me. There are dark circles round his bright-blue eyes. “Hope you got a good night’s sleep,” he says.

  I nod.

  Jamie says, “There’s something up, boss.”

  Boss. He still calls me that, even though we’re more like partners these days. Last year he took up an equal stake in the firm, after years of being the junior associate. Or, as he said, the dogsbody.

  “With the subject?”

  “Nah. With you.”

  I can feel the grin this time. I say, “We’ll talk about it later.”

  He passes the carbon copies of the log through the window to me. I’ll look at it later, but I already know the story. Jamie was here all night and saw nothing.

  I look across at the small bungalow with the red-brick walls and the low-walled garden. The curtains are drawn. Maybe Cullum’s still asleep.

  We’ve been watching him for 24 hours, now. The prep work had taken three days. But this was the worst part. A lot of investigative work involves mind – and arse – numbing periods watching people and making note of their day-to-day activities all in the hope of seeing something that correlates your client’s suspicion.

  In this case, our client was a local firm of solicitors who suspected one of their junior partners was in serious trouble. Neil Cullum. Twenty-six years old, no previous. A young lad who was predicted to go far. Except in the last few months, he’d gone off the rails. His work had deteriorated, his personality becoming erratic. He’d been seen in strange places, leaving his office and home at all hours, abandoning cases and clients. Any attempt to talk to him had resulted in offensive, even aggressive behaviour.

  Our client had begun to put two and two together, not liking the numbers they were coming up with.

  Cullum hadn’t had a tough upbringing, although his father – Craig Kinney – was a scumbag who left before Jamie was two years old, never even pretending he wanted to marry Cullum’s mother, who would go on to marry a man who was unapologetically upper-middle class. The new husband treated Neil like his own. Gave the lad every opportunity he could. Genetics aside, he was as real a dad as anyone could have asked for.

  I’d talked to the parents a day earlier. They’d been as concerned as Cullum’s employers, claiming that in the last few months their son become distant from them, reacting to occasional concerned phone calls with a naked aggression that they both termed uncharacteristic.

  Neil’s apparent personality change – along with his professional decline – had begun, as far as anyone could tell, right around the time Kinney – a violent recidivist who’d been serving time for drug and assault charges – had been released from prison. Neil’s real father had spent over half his life behind bars and this latest

  Solicitors, like investigators, tend not to believe in coincidence.

  Jamie and I had been watching Cullum’s movements for twenty-four hours, taking it in shifts. It was the part of the job Jamie hated. He was a man of action, so he kept saying. Sitting in a car, drinking Red Bulls and coffee, pissing into a bottle wasn’t Jamie’s idea of a good time.

  I told him it wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, but it was part of the job.

  Jamie had spent most of the last day at home, with his girlfriend. Jamie’s notes said he’d heard raised voices earlier in the morning, but didn’t know what the argument had been about. The night itself had been uneventful.

  So now it’s my turn.

  I’m ready for a long wait, keeping the music on low in the car to keep me interested. Random CDs I’d pulled from the flat, not really caring, just relying on the noise to keep me from zoning out.

  Besides, I’m not listening to the music.

  I’m thinking about Ros.

  Saturday

  2345

  Impending fatherhood had a sobering effect on me, it seemed. It felt like days since I’d been drinking with Sandy. And now I was lying in the dark, next to Ros, feeling her breath on my skin, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin.

  She traced old scars on my upper body.

  I said, “Do you want me to quit?”

  “What?”

  “The business.”

  She hesitated, then. Her entire body froze as though someone had hit a pause button on her life.

  Then: “Seriously, babe?”

  I said, “These last few years, I’ve been landed in hospital more than once. I’ve seen a man’s head blown apart by a shotgun. I’ve been nearly glassed several times. I just don’t…”

  “You can’t wrap yourself in cotton wool just because you’re a father.”

  I said, “You used to tell me you were afraid about what might happen to me.”

  “You’re a big boy.” Another time or place it might have been a kind of joke. But she said the words with an odd wistfulness.

  I said, “It’s not this boy I’m worried about,” and I reached out to stroke her stomach with my fingertips.

  Sunday

  1012

  Neil Cullum leaves the house, with his head down and his coat collar up. He is tall, with a kind of cowboy swagger about him. As my gran would have said, he has legs like rubber bands. Cullum’s carrying something. A sports bag. The insignia – red on black – is from a company that has long gone out of business. The bag looks ready to retire

  C
ullum’s car is parked down the street. He walks with his back to me. Its no coincidence, one of the reasons I chose this spot; last place he was likely to look.