Gurk looked at Rita and said, ‘Here, love. Stifle that snivelling, eh? It’s giving me the willies.’
Rita looked up at Gurk. Mascara ran down her face like ink spilled carelessly. Her hands were locked in upraised fists. ‘You fucking killed him, you fucking pig, you fucking cunt.’
‘Well, yeh. I did. I can hardly deny it, can I? So now you’re lonely, is that it? Horrible being on your tod. Tell you what, love, I’ll fix it for you. Cheerio, dear.’ Gurk smiled and fired the gun and Haggs saw Rita’s head split open like a squash that had dropped from the back of a vegetable lorry screaming down the motorway, and, sickened, he looked away from the sight.
Gurk said, ‘You were saying, Haggsy.’
Haggs had a hard time regulating his voice. ‘I was saying Mallon told me nothing.’
‘He didn’t mention the whereabouts or the nature of the cargo?’
‘He never discussed any of that,’ Haggs said. He might have had an old sock stuffed in his throat, so thick did his voice sound. He stared at Gurk’s gun until it expanded and filled his vision entirely and then beyond even that. It was bigger than the world. His hearing had somehow been heightened – a tap dripped once every thirty seconds into the sink, a moth trapped and dying beat quietly at the metal roof, and something wet slid down the wall behind Rita but he didn’t want to look.
‘We weren’t close, you know. We weren’t friends.’
‘Business involves trust, and me and my associates don’t trust you, Haggsy. We don’t like the idea of you looking under stones trying to find our property. We don’t like you swanning around this dandy old city looking for something that isn’t yours. I mean, what if you was to stumble over it, eh? You’d tell us, right? Yeh, sure, and I shit gold bricks. It would be gone in a flash, pal. And where would that leave me and my colleagues, eh? Out of pocket and no chance of recovering our goods.’
Haggs said, ‘Look, I’d like to help, honest –’
‘Oh, I’d like that too.’ Gurk glanced at the gun in his hand. ‘But my associates feel you’ve trespassed on their territory. You’ve been too fucking eager to muscle in on something that’s got nothing to do with you. In short, you’re out of fucking control, jack.’
‘I can make inquiries on your behalf,’ Haggs said. ‘I know people, I can ask questions –’
‘You been busy asking questions already, Haggsy. And it hasn’t worked out very well. We’re left with no cargo, and two dead associates. That’s not kosher, is it? We can’t have you giving us grief, squire.’
Haggs said, ‘Maybe I can help. I know my way round this city, I know people who knew Jackie, the guys that worked for him in his warehouse in Bluevale Street, aye, you could ask them, or you could talk to the people he drank with, they might know something. Then there’s his son Eddie –’ I’m begging, he thought. And I swore I never would.
‘Look at it this way,’ Gurk said. ‘This life is just a stage you’re passing through. Shadows on walls, mate. Everything is appearance. You’ll be back in some other form.’
‘Once around the block is enough for me,’ Haggs said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, any plea he might enter on his own behalf that would persuade this cold smiling brown man he was worth sparing. He took one step back and Gurk, who defined the past, present and future of Roddy Haggs, popped off a shot which Haggs heard only for as long as it takes an eye to blink.
‘Fucking carnage,’ Gurk said, and wondered how badly he’d dented the thin brass-plating of his karma. Very badly, he imagined. In his next incarnation he’d be a bleeding aphid with a lifespan of about forty-five minutes. He surveyed the bodies and stuffed the gun in his waistband and went outside just as a black cab came into the parking area.
A man got out of the taxi. That fucker from the hotel in Largs, Gurk thought. The one who’d chased him through the train station. Gurk moved quickly towards his car.
The man shouted, ‘Gurk!’
Gurk fired off a single shot and it struck the door of the taxi and the man threw himself to the ground. Gurk opened the door of his green Fiat and got behind the wheel, aware of a second figure stepping out of the cab now, an older man who crouched low and was half-hidden by the cab door. The cabby had vanished, ducked down behind his wheel.
I finish them all off or I get the hell out of here, Gurk thought.
Did aphids fuck or did they procreate in some other way he knew nothing about? If he didn’t jump out of the Fiat and shoot these people maybe he’d get a break on the karmic ladder, skipping the fruit-fly step and coming back a few levels up, a bee, say, buzzing from flower to flower, or a snail sliming along some damp basement.
Or a lawyer, he thought.
He drove quickly past the taxi. The guy from the train station was down on his knees, shouting something. Gurk couldn’t hear what. The older fellow stood behind the open door, staring at the Fiat’s plate, memorizing it. Fat lot of good that’s going to do, Gurk thought. The registration was fake, no two ways, the car probably stolen. Gurk drove, tyres squealing, air dense with exhaust pall, through the streets of the industrial estate.
He didn’t look back.
Perlman helped Eddie to his feet. The taxi driver, a chubby man with a liver-coloured birthmark on his neck, stumbled out of the cab.
‘Fucking hell,’ the cabby said. He examined the hole left by the bullet in the side door. ‘Fucking hell,’ and he said it several times in amazement.
Perlman showed him his police ID, as if this might mollify him. ‘I’m sorry. That was unexpected.’
‘Why the hell are you bastards riding about in taxis anyway? I thought you had souped-up squad cars,’ the driver said. ‘And don’t even think about asking me to follow him, because I’m having none of that lark. Look at my hands, man. I’m shaking like a leaf. It’s a Valium I need,’ and he stepped back inside the cab and slumped chalk-faced behind the wheel. ‘Fucking hell,’ on and on, an incantation.
Perlman said, ‘It’s not worth chasing him. He’ll dump the car first alley he comes to,’ and he mentioned something vague and apologetic about reimbursement and repairs, then he walked towards the building. Eddie followed. He thought of the bullet that had slammed into the cab door, and Gurk’s face which, with dreadlocks gone, looked intense and luminously determined.
It was hot in the building and the air smelled of blood. Flies buzzed.
Eddie stood over Haggs, who lay face down, one eye gone, the other wide and open and blind. In death he seemed a few inches shorter than in life, as if he were dwindling.
Perlman sighed. ‘I wanted him. But not like this. No way.’
Eddie looked at the other two bodies. Violent death always unsettled him. He’d never quite developed the protective carapace he found so common among his colleagues.
Perlman said, ‘Allow me to introduce you, Eddie. The woman is – was – Rita Wright. Rita Wrong would’ve been more accurate. The other’s John Twiddie, something of an enforcer for our Roddy, and very very nasty. Rita was Twiddie’s helper and lover. They were not nice people, Eddie.’
Eddie gazed at the girl, and had an impression of safety pins and metallic studs and steely clasps covered with blood. There was nothing left that resembled a face. He turned to look at Twiddie. Bare bone was visible where flesh had been blown from the side of the skull.
‘Right piece of work, our Twiddie,’ Perlman said.
Eddie was shocked to hear a slight expulsion of air from Twiddie’s open mouth. He went down on his knees and listened. ‘Jesus, he’s still breathing, Lou.’
Perlman came closer. ‘Only just.’
Twiddie suddenly raised a hand and with enormous effort clutched Eddie’s arm. He whispered so quietly Eddie was obliged to bring his face level with the man’s mouth.
‘You … eh, a priest …?’
A priest. Eddie said nothing. Twiddie was functioning at a level where it was doubtful he’d have understood a response. How he’d managed to survive the wound to his head was one of those freak occ
urrences that depend on such circumstances as the trajectory of bullet or hardness of bone, or even something as unquantifiable as the sheer will to linger in the world a little longer. Eddie had seen shotgun victims survive bullets to the brain and stabbing casualties whose cerebra had been pierced without fatal effect.
‘I’ve done bad things, Father … I want to confess.’
Eddie looked into the man’s eyes. The glazed blue light was dulling rapidly and the pupils were tiny. ‘What bad things?’
Twiddie tried to focus on Eddie’s face. His eyes lacked coordination and his body convulsed. His hand slid from Eddie’s arm, leaving a streak of blood.
Twiddie spoke again, voice almost inaudible. ‘Rita … where are you, doll … doll, you there …’ And then he was silent and his dead eyes stared directly into Eddie’s face.
Perlman fingered Twiddie’s pulse. ‘He’s gone. Christ knows where a soul like Twiddie’s finds sanctuary. Look, get the cabby to drive you back to your sister’s place, Eddie. I’m going to have to call Tay and I don’t want you here when the heavy boys arrive. Tay’ll ask too many questions, and you don’t need to be involved.’ He took his cellphone from his jacket.
Eddie walked outside. He heard Perlman talk on his phone. The cab driver was still slumped behind the wheel.
‘Dennistoun,’ Eddie said.
‘You mind if we drive really slow?’
‘Drive any way you like.’
Eddie climbed into the back seat and looked at John Twiddie’s blood on his arm.
Twiddie, the enforcer. I’ve done bad things …
I want to confess …
Confess what? He wondered if it had been Twiddie who’d pulled the trigger on Jackie. If Haggs had ordered the slaying. Do the old man, Twiddie. Do it right.
He let the thought drift and stared out at the lamplit city and recognized nothing, street names, storefronts, bars. It was strange to him, and he had the feeling it always would be, a city he’d remember now and then, with diminishing clarity, when he was home in Queens.
58
In Joyce’s flat Eddie sat on the sofa. Joyce wasn’t home. He assumed she was with Caskie. He rang his home number, and heard Claire’s melodic voice on the answering machine. ‘We can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message. Thanks.’ Fuck it, he felt lonely. He wandered through the small flat, drank tap water in the kitchen, looked out at the backs of the surrounding tenements. Laundry, lit by electric light from windows, hung motionless on lines below.
He ran cold water over his arm and rinsed Twiddie’s blood off his skin, then he went back to the sofa and lay down, closing his eyes: a dark rolled across him and he dozed briefly. In his sleep he felt John Twiddie’s hand circling his wrist. He woke, startled, trembling, half-expecting to see Twiddie stand above him, resurrected and murderous. He sat upright, clenched his hands together. I need alcohol, he thought, a shot for the nerves. He found a bottle of brandy in the kitchen and drank from it and he thought about Twiddie in the back of Jackie’s car, waiting with gun in hand. Anticipating the moment. He thought of a twilight street and a half-acre of wasteland and Jackie getting into the Mazda and maybe he was humming a tune under his breath and Twiddie changed the whole picture into nightmare. He closed the brandy and set the bottle down and heard the sound of Perlman’s voice in the hallway.
‘Careless, Eddie. You didn’t shut the door properly.’
Eddie couldn’t remember getting out of the cab and climbing the stairs and returning to the flat. All blank. A kind of blackout. Going through motions. He went to the kitchen doorway. Perlman was smoking a cigarette in his avid manner.
‘How did it go?’ Eddie asked.
‘Tay took total control. He likes to run his own show. He’s excited, although you’d need an electron microscope to see any change in his expression. You’ll be seeing Gurk’s face, or a likeness thereof, on your TV screens before the night’s out. Buzz buzz. The city’s being turned over like a fucking pancake … You were never near the place, you understand. You never saw any corpses.’
‘What about the cab driver?’
‘I’ve spoken to him. He never saw you either. In fact, he saw nothing and he prefers it that way.’
Eddie was quiet a second before he came back to the inevitable and said, ‘Caskie.’
‘What can I say about him, Eddie? We’ve got nothing on him. The voices that might have spoken out – they’re all silent. He just fades away into retirement, and that’s the last of him.’ He cleared his throat a few times. ‘I need some night air. It’s lovely out there. Crime to waste this kind of weather. You fancy keeping me company?’
‘I’d like that.’ The last of Caskie, Eddie thought. Not where Joyce was concerned. What did she see in the future? Herself and Chris yachting away on fresh tides? Love, albeit one constructed on lies and old subterfuges, prevailing? Why not. Maybe she deserved to believe in love.
Don’t we all, he thought.
Perlman wandered towards the door. Eddie followed him down the stairs and outside. The air was curiously sweet; a hint of new-mown grass suffused the dark. They walked towards Whitehill Street, then turned left to Duke Street. Perlman was a slow stroller, pausing now and again when he heard a strain of music from a tenement flat or the sound of a cat or somebody’s voice upraised in domestic dispute. Along Duke Street the smell of deep-fried food hung in the air. Streetlamps glowed. A moon almost full sailed over the city. Perlman stopped outside a fish and chip shop. ‘I need some grease to keep my strength up. Fancy anything?’
Eddie wasn’t hungry, but he went inside the shop anyway with Perlman, who ordered fish and chips. The counterman dumped the food into a cardboard tray which he then tucked inside a paper bag. Perlman carried the bag outside.
‘They used to wrap it in old newspapers,’ he said. ‘You could read the sports pages while you stuffed your face,’ and he fingered a chunk of fish into his mouth as he strolled. He belched very slightly. Eddie looked up at the lights in tenements. A birdcage hung in a third-floor window. A woman reached up to drape a cover over the cage. From somewhere else in the city came the sound of cop cars, harsh and unrelenting.
Both men crossed Duke Street.
‘The city feels different,’ Perlman said. ‘I like to think I’m tuned into the wavelength of Glasgow, and when there’s interference, I can hear it. Murder interferes with my reception. There’s static.’
Eddie said nothing. He was seeing Charlie McWhinnie dropping to the ground and the crowd parting to create a space, and he was imagining Tommy Gurk, comedian, shooting Roddy Haggs; Gurk, wanted man, out there somewhere in the night.
They reached the corner of Bluevale Street, where Eddie said, I’d like to stroll down to the warehouse. I might never get another chance to look at it.’
‘Planning to stay away for good? Don’t like the city, eh?’
‘Maybe I’ve been gone too long, and the drift’s too wide.’
‘Glasgow’s an acquired taste,’ Perlman said. He dumped the leftovers of his fish and chips in a dustbin.
They walked down Bluevale Street. When they reached the high wire fence that surrounded the yard, a huge dog reared barking inside, a snarling flurry of fur and claws and bared teeth. Beyond, a subdued light was lit in the warehouse window, and it cast a rectangle of illumination across the yard. Inside the building somebody was playing ‘Red River Valley’ very softly on a harmonica. Eddie was reminded of old black-and-white prison movies, the condemned man shuffling along Death Row to the chair and some sad-eyed inmate playing a harmonica in the background.
The dog’s eyes gleamed, and piles of old brick and sinks and cisterns became dim forms piled willy-nilly. The dog kept growling, throwing itself at the wire. The harmonica stopped.
‘Shut up, Chet,’ Eddie said. ‘Cool it.’
The dog appeared puzzled hearing the sound of his own name and withdrew a moment and then, triggered by his training, he dashed himself again at the fence.
A door opened
somewhere in the darkness and a voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Eddie Mallon.’
Joe Wilkie appeared at the fence. ‘This is a surprise, Eddie. I wasn’t expecting company at this time of night.’
‘Joe, you remember Detective-Sergeant Perlman?’
‘Sure I do,’ Joe Wilkie said. ‘We talked already.’
‘Indeed we did,’ Perlman said.
Silence a moment. Chet backed off, walking in anxious circles. Joe Wilkie fingered the rims of his glasses and coughed.
Eddie said, ‘I just wanted a last look at the old place. Can we come inside?’
‘Now?’
‘Is it inconvenient for you?’
‘No, no problem,’ Joe Wilkie said. He rubbed his jaw, a small gesture of uncertainty, then unlocked the door in the fence and allowed Eddie and Perlman to come through. He shut the door with one hand while he restrained the dog with the other. ‘We were just doing some stocktaking.’
‘At this hour?’ Eddie asked.
‘Jackie was never tidy. It always got on my wick the way he did things. I like to keep an accurate record of stock. You want to know what you’ve got, what’s of any value and what’s junk you can just toss. Jackie hoarded like an effing jackdaw.’
They went inside the warehouse. The door to Jackie’s office was open a few inches. A light burned in there. Eddie surveyed the warehouse; here and there dim overhead lamps were lit. Stone columns and statues, piles of rusted scaffolding that looked like the bones of prototype robots that had failed, quarry slates in great haphazard stacks, chimneypots. It’s weird, Eddie thought. Here was his childhood and suddenly he couldn’t relate to it, not the way he’d done before in this place. The past was receding.
The Bad Fire Page 33