The words didn’t seem to have the impact I’d expected them to. Andy looked unfazed, but then he hadn’t seen the kip of Kerr.
He sighed. ‘I’m very sorry for your pain. Really, I am.’
I didn’t want his sympathy. ‘It’s your help I want.’
He tipped back the last of the scoosh. ‘And what about the way Big Ian went?’
‘You want them to get away with that?’
He huffed.
‘Someone wanted Kerr to stay quiet . . . Someone’s got a lot to lose,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’d fucking say so.’
I held back for a moment, let the thought of Ian Kerr’s death settle between us. ‘I need information about the set-up over there.’
‘What information?’
I smelt the whisky on Andy’s breath; it made my pulse race. ‘I know about the Czechs, the labour racket . . . Fucking hell, let’s call it what it is: slavery. And I know about Ronnie McMilne.’
The mention of the Undertaker put the shits up him, I could see that. The idea of being buried alive was universal. Something leaped in him. ‘I was on the trucks when McMilne came in . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘It was low-scale at first, bits and pieces added to the loads.’
I checked him: ‘The loads . . . Rewind a bit there, mate.’
Andy sketched out the way the business worked, shipping components from all over Europe to assemble in the city factory. There had been cash-flow problems, trouble paying wages, creditors giving agg. The banks had been no help.
‘That’s when Davie took up with this McMilne geezer,’ said Andy. ‘The idea was the truckies would load a few extra pallets on the wagons and customs would be none the wiser if the paperwork was sound.’
‘And no one said shit about it?’
‘One or two drivers got lippy and were sorted out, but the rest got a right good drink out it. You’ve got to remember they were bumping folk left and right at this time . . . The boys had to put steam on the table.’
‘So where did it all go wrong?’
‘This fella . . . McMilne, he was pushing for more and more, wanted whole loads carried, all this Polish vodka and ciggies, container-loads. The boys got worried. That’s when it got kicked upstairs . . . to Michael.’
‘He didn’t know?’
Andy returned to his stubble, ran his palm over his chin. ‘No, your brother knew, I’m sorry to tell you. He had no choice – the firm was going under.’
It came as a jolt to hear Michael had been involved with the Undertaker, but who was I to judge? Hadn’t I done a million times worse myself? My brother was only trying to protect his livelihood, looking after his family, and quite a few others.
‘Then what happened?’ I said.
‘We took the full loads.’
I shook my head. I could see the Undertaker had his hooks into Davie and Michael. Running some knock-off was one thing, though. I just didn’t buy my brother going for the labour racket, that would be a step too far for him. ‘Tell me, Andy, where do the Czechs come in?’
His face blackened. ‘Bunch of cunts.’ He spat on the floor. ‘That’s where it all went fucking crazy . . . I wanted out, but they told me no way.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Davie – the Czechs were his idea . . . McMilne brought them in by the lorryload but that was all we had to do with them at first. It was fat fucking Davie who saw the benefits of putting them to work over the road.’
I knew it. Davie had been led by the wallet. ‘Punt the loyal workers and replace them with a cheaper lot . . . and turn a blind eye to why they were so cheap.’
‘Said the wages bill needed cut doon. The Czechs told him they were the answer to all his worries, and he believed them.’
‘Fucksake, did he buy any magic beans off them as well?’
Andy snorted. ‘It all backfired on fat Davie, though . . . when he punted all his workers, the Czechs took over. And they wanted fuck all to do with McMilne.’
I couldn’t see the Undertaker being too pleased about carving up his venture. ‘So they edged him out?’
‘Too fucking right they did. Took over the runs themselves.’
It sounded like an act of war to me, said, ‘I bet that didn’t go down too well.’
Andy nodded, let out a nervous grunt. His eyes grew even wider as he looked to the window and across the factory yard. ‘I’m surprised we’re no’ all in the fucking ground.’
I shook my head. ‘There’s time yet.’
Chapter 17
I SAT AT THE LIGHTS on London Road. Didn’t realise they’d changed to green, and then back to red, until some bell-end in a white van started blasting me with his horn. I turned round to eyeball him through the back window, and he pretended to talk into his Bluetooth earpiece.
An excuse, even a slight one, and I was going postal.
My mind was awash with what Michael had been through in his last months. He’d built up an international business, had made the kind of life for himself that most of us could only dream of, and it had all been snatched away from him. The masters of the universe he called neighbours had crashed the banks and took his business down with them. The bankers were all right, though: the government had insured their fuck-ups, even managed the kind of bailout that would see some of them paid bonuses like nothing had happened. The world had gone mad. How could I blame my brother for losing it too?
Nightly, the politicians – our supposed leaders – strutted out, chests puffed, PR-advised smiles plastered on their coupons and assured us they had everything under control. Like fuck they did. They were in a spin, pumping the gas then the brake in ever-increasing desperation to stop this rig from hitting the wall.
‘Fucking bastards,’ I mouthed.
I’d never felt more helpless; I knew how the workers, the truckies and the line operators that fat Davie punted must have felt. The suits had brought us to this crash, but it was the working man who was going to feel the full impact.
I parked up on Easter Road and braced myself for the Arctic blast I saw blowing the litter up the street at a hundred miles per hour. I wondered if the scaffies were on strike again; if they were then, for the first time, I didn’t blame them. We needed more protests. We needed to get the fucking tumbrils rolling.
Outside the flat there was a cold-looking cat stood on a window ledge. It screeched to get inside but there was no one home. The animal looked frozen, like the one Victor Meldrew found in his freezer. I picked it up and brought it into the stairwell. It raised tail and prowled before the door of the ground-floor flat it called home.
As I took the steps I sensed movement, looked down to see a yellow trickle rolling over the stair. I knew at once what it was from the smell. As I turned the corner I caught the schemie who’d been round asking for three quid to clean the stairs. He stood with his tackle out, a grand arc of pish flowing from him.
He clocked me, made a mad fumble to zip up.
I took the stairs slowly. The blood-pumping so loudly in me that I could hear it. ‘You fucking skanky piece of shit,’ I said.
He looked up at me. His beanie was pushed back on his head; a couple of grey teeth protruded above a scabby lip. I waited for a reply, got none. He obviously took being rumbled as a professional risk – sauntered past me onto the steps with a shrug.
I wasn’t having it. Launched a rabbit punch to the back of his napper. He flew into the wall, collapsed in his own urine. As he turned I saw his teeth had made contact with the plaster, dislodged a chalky hole that fell like dust over him. He tried to get up but slipped in his own pish.
I moved above him. ‘You little fucker . . . Think this is the way, do you?’ I slapped him across the puss, forehand then backhand. ‘Nice little fucking earner, was it?’
I yanked open his jacket, ripped into his inside pocket. Found his cash and yanked it out.
He spluttered blood from his mouth as he tried to speak, made a weak attempt to snatch back the notes.
I showed him the back of my hand again, he recoiled.
‘I need that,’ he said.
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. I counted the notes. ‘And what, you think the folk in here don’t?’ It was only twenty-six pounds: enough to fill the tank at the pub and come back for more.
‘But . . . but . . .’
He watched me pocket the cash. His mouth still drooped open, dripping blood. I slapped the side of his head, the beanie went for a flier. ‘Now, listen up, you daft little cunt. I catch you in this stair again, the only pissing you’ll be doing is into a fucking bag, you get me?’
He eased his way along the wall then made a stumble for the stairs. I heard the cat yelp as he passed the bottom flat, then the door slammed behind him.
I chapped up the auld wifey at number three. She took an age to answer. ‘Hello there,’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s you. I thought it was the stair fella again.’
I dug in my pocket for the notes. ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him any more. He’s shut up shop, and, well, he’s given us a refund.’
I handed over the twenty-six pounds.
She had glasses on a chain around her neck, she put them on, ‘Oh, I think he’s given me too much.’
I smiled, gave her a wave as I turned to my flat. ‘Treat yourself,’ I said. This wealth distribution felt good. Knew it would never catch on.
Usual barked and jumped onto the couch at the sight of me, barked again and dropped back down. He stretched out his front paws and lowered his chest to the floor. I was grateful for the welcome but thought I deserved none of it.
‘Down, boy, down.’ I patted his head, watched his tail wag as I took out my mobi; I’d had it switched off since my meeting with Andy and there were half a dozen missed calls from Mac.
I pressed ‘return call’.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Where the fuck you been?’
‘I owe you a tenner,’ I said.
‘Wha’?’
‘Just caught the stair pisher . . .’
He didn’t even laugh. His voice came low and flat: ‘Gus, there’s been some developments.’
‘Such as?’
‘Hod got into a bit of bother . . . got himself a bad kicking.’
I didn’t like the sound of this. I’d asked Hod to look into the Czechs. He had a rep for Rambo-ing. ‘Spill it.’
‘There were words exchanged . . . some boxing.’
Knew at once he’d been hurt. ‘How bad?’
‘He’s up on bricks.’
‘I’ll be right round.’
Mac raised his voice: ‘Gus, he’s not here. He’s at the hospital.’
I felt empty.
Hung up.
The thought of Hod being worked over felled me. I headed straight for the cludgie and took out my bag of speed. I’d been hammering it; the wraps were going down. I got tanked into one, then another. The dog watched me. He knew I was up to something, wore that ‘Debs won’t be pleased’ look of his. I yelled him off. He flattened ears and went to his basket. ‘Like I could feel any worse,’ I told him.
I took myself to the hall, then back to the kitchenette and opened one of the cupboard doors. My mind was working so fast on all the possibilities that I hardly noticed my movements speeding. I dished up some Pal for the dog and grabbed my Crombie from the hallstand.
It was rush-hour traffic, roads clogged with double-deckers. For half an hour I sat in a stationary lane next to a ten-foot poster of Carol Smillie flogging the chance to win a million quid on the Postcode Lottery. When I finally made it to the Royal the sky was dark and the temperature well below zero. I got the ward number from reception and headed for the lift. I still felt like I was speeding out my face, the blood pushing behind my temples as the bell pinged and the doors opened.
Mac sat on the end of the bed. As I clocked Hod he looked to have been solidly worked over. Both his eyes were blackened. His nose wore a white T-bar where the doctors had tried to reset it; I knew from experience it would never be the same. I was relieved to see his limbs had been spared. Thought: Christ, how bad is it if you’re grateful his kneecaps are intact?
‘All right,’ I said as I walked in. I eyed some fruit sitting by his bedside, a bottle of Lucozade and a couple of cards. ‘I, eh, haven’t brought anything . . . sorry.’
Hod shrugged. Immediately a wince spread on his face and he touched his ribs. ‘Don’t sweat it, I’ve been promised jelly, I’m rapt.’
I smiled, glad I wasn’t being blamed for this. Least not by Hod.
Mac spoke: ‘Where you been all day?’
It didn’t seem the place to talk. There was an old geezer in the next bed, sitting up in striped pyjamas, reading the Hootsman. I tried to appease Mac, hunted in my pocket for a tenner, handed it over. ‘Here you go . . . Your winnings.’
He grinned. ‘Stair pisher got you as well, eh?’
‘What’s this?’ said Hod.
We both shook heads. Mac said, ‘Fancy a donner down to the day room?’
Hod hauled himself out of bed. ‘Aye, c’mon . . . Grab a coffee, eh.’
Hod hobbled down the corridor – wouldn’t take any help. In the day room we bagged some industrial-issue chairs, bright orange hoseable numbers that looked like relics of the seventies. Thought they wouldn’t have been out of place in our rental flat.
Mac carried over three cups. ‘Only got tea.’
‘I can’t drink tea,’ I said.
Mac looked back to the vending machine. ‘There’s soup – mushroom, I think.’
‘I’ll go without.’
When I got a closer look at Hod’s injuries I saw his knuckles were scraped to bits, swollen and bruised. ‘You got a few good biffs in, then,’ I said, pointing to his hands.
He grinned. ‘Some fucking belters.’
Mac sipped his tea, tore back the corners of his mouth. I guessed I’d made the right move crying off it. Went, ‘So, what happened?’
Hod drew fists. It looked difficult for him; the tendons in his wrists showed as he spoke to Mac. ‘Did you give him it?’
‘Nope . . . first I’ve seen him since.’
I looked between them, tried to piece together their thoughts. ‘I’m guessing this was the Czechs. Right?’
Mac returned to his tea, blew on it. He shook his head. ‘Tell him from the start.’
Hod’s shoulders rose and fell beneath his gown. His face portrayed every painful movement. ‘I haven’t got started on the Czechs yet, Gus.’
That only left one other option. The thought stuck in me like a blade.
‘You haven’t?’
Hod spoke: ‘I was planning to, but got a bit sidetracked.’
I took the blow. ‘Wasn’t meaning . . .’
‘Don’t worry. Can I get on with this?’ He leaned forward, took a sip of tea. ‘Christ, that tea’s rough . . . Anyway, I was locking up and there was a bloke standing over the road, staring in. Just giving me eyeball, y’know. And I thought, What’s his fucking problem? So I says I’ll go have a word, and he gets the same idea, started strutting over like the Big I Am, yeah . . .’
I couldn’t see that going down well with Hod. Man works sites in all weathers, he develops a certain amount of hard.
‘I thought he was casing the bar, or had his eye on the till . . . or fuck, I dunno, maybe I’d put a line on his bird or something. So I went out. He was a big lad. Y’know, skinhead, fucking rocks in his head more like. And I said, “What you playing at, mate?”’
I felt Mac’s eyes on me. He was waiting for my reaction to the next bit.
Hod went on, ‘So then he goes, “Nice pub. Gus Dury still run it?” I told him I was the fucking owner and what’s he asking about you for, and the cunt starts to laugh.’
I glanced at Mac. He was nodding, said, ‘It gets better.’
‘So I asked him what was so funny,’ said Hod, ‘and then he walks off. I was half tempted to panel the prick, when he got into a big Daimler and who’s in the back b
ut—’
I cut in, ‘Ronnie McMilne.’
Mac and Hod looked at each other. ‘How did you know that?’ said Mac.
‘I had a visit myself.’
Hod tutted. ‘Not one like mine you didn’t.’
I thanked my stars for that. ‘So, then what?’
‘I went back to the pub, cashed up. I was about to go and put the shutters up when the skinhead came in, dropped a packet on the bar and walked off.’
Mac took something out of his pocket, handed it to me. It was a Marlboro packet. I opened it up – all the cigarettes were still inside, except one. It had been replaced by a long bullet, kind you put in an assault rifle.
I closed the box. ‘He gave you this for me?’
Hod nodded. ‘I opened it up and he said, “That’s for Dury” . . . I just flipped. I ran after him, had him in the street, grabbed his coat over his head and was weighing into him. Was battering ten bells out the cunt when the Daimler screeched up and another lump got out.’
I didn’t know what to say. I felt my spine straighten; as it did so a single bead of cold sweat ran the length of it. I reached out to Hod, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mate, I’m truly sorry. You can’t imagine how mad this makes me.’
Hod brushed away my hand, leaned over and put an eye on me. ‘Gus, don’t get mad . . . get fucking even.’
Chapter 18
WHEN I BROKE THE NEWS about Hod to Debs she went apeshit. Her concern about how I was handling my brother’s death was now replaced by her greatest fear – that I’d soon be going the same way as him. I knew she wondered what I’d let myself in for; Christ, I did too.
‘Gus, this has got to stop,’ she yelled. ‘Now, before anyone else gets hurt.’
I put my hands on her shoulders. She was shaking with fear, hurt, maybe both. ‘It will. It will.’
‘But how? With you in the ground?’ Her face contorted, twisted into a mask of anguish and then her lips quivered as tears came.
‘No, Debs, I wouldn’t put you through that.’
‘Oh, you think you’ll have a fucking choice.’
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