It was only after she was out of earshot that the little man turned to the rest of us.
“She isnae mine “ he said. “I’m breaking her in for a friend.”
Half the people in the bar laughed, the tension broke, and we all went back to ignoring each other. When the woman returned her mascara was gone and she sat down meekly opposite the man. They spoke in silence for a while before leaving. He led, she followed.
They’d left me thinking about partners. Partners and friends, Liz and Jimmy. It was time to move on.
The rain had eased slightly. I strolled down to Charing Cross, mentally noting the new buildings, the shiny glass corporate offices that were slowly replacing the old weary Victorian stone.
As I crossed the M8 motorway the rain started to fall heavily again, and gave me just the excuse I needed to pop into the Bon Accord. I stayed there for hours, drinking heavy, strong Scottish ales with names like Skullsplitter and Bitter And Twisted. I talked to nobody, and nobody talked to me. By the time six o’clock came around my legs were a bit less secure than usual, and my head was nicely fuzzy.
A long walk in the rain through Kelvingrove Park and along University Avenue sobered me up a bit, but not enough to let me drive back to Anniesland. I ate fish and chips standing outside my favorite chippie in Byres Road before hailing a taxi to take me to Tommy MacIntyre’s shop.
“Tommy McIntyre, eh?” the cab driver said, and leered at me in his rear-view mirror. “Are you going for anything special?”
“Aye “ I said. “A diamante stud for the end of my knob, and a titanium column to go through my scrotum.”
“Oh, aye “ he said, and his gaze slid away from the mirror. “Very nice.”
He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the journey, which was fine by me. He dropped me off in front of MacIntyre’s shop at five-to-eight. He took my fare, didn’t even quibble about a tip, and was off and away almost before I’d shut the cab door.
The shop sat in darkness. That in itself wasn’t unusual—it was past dark, on a weekday, and trade would be light, at best. I peered through the main window. The light was on in the office at the back, and I saw movement, as if someone had walked in front of a lamp.
I knocked on the window—I’d been about to shout when I realized how futile it would be; I wasn’t operating at top speed. I went round to the door, to knock louder, and was surprised to find the door ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
The streetlights didn’t penetrate this far, and I found myself stumbling in semi-darkness. I hit something, a piece of furniture. A loud crash echoed in the room. At the far end I caught a glimpse of movement again, a swift shadow that was quickly gone.
I called out.
“Hey, Tommy. I’ve got that money I promised you.” I realized as I spoke that I had spent a large part of it that afternoon. But Tommy wasn’t to know that yet.
I moved further up the room. My eyes started to adjust to the gloom, and I saw that the door to the office was slightly open.
“I hope you’re not giving Mandy one in there “ I shouted. “That’s a sight I definitely don’t want to see.”
And that’s when my brain caught up with what my nose had been telling it for the last ten seconds. The place stank—the same rancid odor I’d smelled in my flat two nights ago. Suddenly my legs went weak and threatened to give under me. I forced myself forward until my hand was on the door to the office.
“Are you there, Tommy?” I said, and noticed with dismay how throaty and scared I sounded. I gathered up what courage I could and pushed the office door open.
Thirty seconds later I was back out in the road, gasping for air and trying to keep down a suddenly acidic combination of beer and fried food.
Tommy McIntyre wasn’t going to be giving Mandy anything. He lay in a pathetic heap on the floor of his office, a sad, middle-aged man wearing a one-piece leather jump suit. There were more holes in it now—red, suppurating holes that still oozed blood. And there were holes, each about an inch diameter, in his cheek, in his thighs, and in his neck. A pool of blood spread beneath him.
But worst of all, and the thing that had sent me running for air, was the larger hole, the one where his genitals had been, now just an open, weeping sore.
I finally got myself under control. I turned and walked quickly away, turning off the main road as soon as I could and working my way through the warren of streets until I was far enough away to feel safe hailing a cab. I had him take me to The Rock at the top end of Hyndland Road. Hardy and Newman would be looking for me, and I didn’t want to make it too hard on them— I knew the conversation with them had been coming all day—Tommy’s death just brought it closer.
I knew my prints were all over Tommy’s shop. I could have gone back in, tried to wipe them clean, but I had been blundering around all over the place. Besides, I didn’t particularly want to come face to face with whatever had attacked Tommy.
I also remembered giving him my card. And Mandy would remember me. She hadn’t looked that bright, but her memory had to be good for at least a couple of hours. I got to The Rock and ordered a whisky. Suddenly I felt sober, and I determined to rectify that situation as soon as possible.
I’d chosen The Rock for a reason. Newman and Hardy knew it was my local. I’d been going in there for more than twenty years now. I was in there the night the Falkland War broke out and four of the locals signed up for the army. I was there the night the one-armed man won the eight- ball pool competition, and I was there the night they started tearing the old pub down to ‘modernize’ the interior. I hadn’t been back as often since then—it sold food now, and let kids in—but it was still one of the places I always ended up when someone needed to find me.
I was near the end of my fourth or fifth whisky when I felt the hand of the law on my shoulder.
“Mr. Adams “ Hardy said. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away “ I said.
The man next to me made a mistake.
“Leave the man alone, why can’t you? He’s just having a drink “ he said, then backed away fast as Newman appeared at his side.
“Do you have a problem wi’ cops, wee man?” the policeman said.
“No. No... I didnae ken ye were the police....I....”
Newman left him alone and turned his attentions on me.
“Down the station, please “ he said.
I drained my whisky in one—it looked like it would my last one for a while—and went with them.
We got out into the fresh air, and my legs started to buckle. The day finally caught up with me.
Hardy grabbed me by the arm and hauled me upwards, but the movement was too fast. I gagged, and out it came—a partially digested fish supper, a couple of pints of beer, and four whiskies. Most of it went over my own trousers, but some caught Newman, almost covering the left foot of his black, shiny, shoes—only they weren’t shiny any more.
“You dirty wee bastard “ one of them said. By that stage I wasn’t sure who. I saw the fist coming, but wasn’t able to roll away from it. It knocked me to the ground, and the last thing I saw before everything went black was the toe of a shoe heading for my head.
I woke up in the drunk cell at Maryhill Police Station. It hadn’t changed much since my last visit some twelve years before—it still stank of piss and vomit, and the graffiti was still graphic, if crudely done. My head felt like someone had stepped on it, and when I touched it just above my ear I felt the lump of a developing bruise.
I had been stripped to my underpants, and given a coarse sheet to wrap around myself. My clothes were not in the cell. My cigarettes were at the foot of the bench I’d been lying on, with a box of safety matches—I obviously wasn’t to be trusted with the Zippo.
My hands shook as I lit a cigarette, and not just from the cold. I was about as miserable as I could get, and it wasn’t over yet; I still had ‘Stan and Ollie’ to face.
They made me wait, though. I had smoked five cigarettes before someone came f
or me. A young policeman that I didn’t know led me to Interview Room One.
It had changed. They’d installed a wall-mounted tape recorder since my last visit, but I doubted if Newman and Hardy ever switched it on. They were waiting, the two of them on the same side of the desk. I sat down opposite them and lit up another Camel.
“Do I get a phone call?” I asked.
“Later “ Hardy said.
“In the morning “ Newman said.
“And are you holding me on anything?”
“Drunk and disorderly “ Hardy said, smiling.
“And resisting arrest “ Newman added.
“Do you guys have to do that?” I asked.
“Do...” said Hardy.
“...what?” said Newman, and they both smiled at me. It was like being smiled at by a pair of hungry tigers.
“Tell us about McIntyre “ Hardy said.
“Tommy McIntyre? I was round at his shop earlier “ I said. “I’m looking for something and I thought he might be able to help me find it.”
I expected them to ask what it was that I was looking for, but either they already knew or they were saving it for later.
“John Harris, Jimmy Allen, and now Tommy McIntyre “ Newman said. “All dead, all with the same M.O. and all not long after talking to you. Are you beginning to see a pattern here?”
“Tommy’s dead? When? I only saw him this...”
I didn’t get a chance to finish.
“Tommy’s hoor Mandy eyeballed you this afternoon, and we’ve got the cab driver who took you to The Rock at ten past eight. Your wee business card was in Tommy’s jacket pocket, with the time—’eight o’clock’ written on the back. Do you want to bet your prints are in the shop?” Hardy said.
“And we’ve got a wifie who says she saw you on the bus yesterday with John Harris. She said you were acting pally with him “ Newman said.
I shivered.
“Can I at least get my clothes back?”
“Forensics “ Newman said.
“Might take a while “ Hardy said.
“Now about Pervy Tommy?” Newman said.
I told them my story, from start to finish. The only thing I left out was who I was working for, and what I was looking for.
“That trip to Dunblane?” Hardy said.
“Awfully convenient for you “ Newman said.
“Aye “ I said. “I suppose it’s the only reason I’m not sitting here charged with murder?”
“There’s time yet “ Newman said.
“Plenty of time “ said Hardy.
It was all downhill from there. They went over my story time and time again, looking for cracks, hoping for an inconsistency. I chain-smoked Camels, and they got more agitated. There was a window high on the wall above me and thin watery sunlight was beginning to seep in when they finally stopped.
Newman left the room, while Hardy just sat and stared at me. Newman came back with a pile of clothes and dropped them on the table in front of me. The stink of stale vomit assaulted my nasal passages.
“No blood. No bits of Tommy McIntyre “ he said. “And the coroner is now saying that the wounds were caused by an animal—some kind of exotic snake he’s never seen before.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook “ Hardy said.
“Aye. We’ll be keeping an eye on you “ Newman said.
“I know “ I said. “Don’t leave town, stay in touch, all that happy-crappy.”
“Aye. You know the drill “ Hardy said.
“Just hope that nobody else you talk to turns up dead “ Newman said.
“You mean like the pair of you?” I said, and smiled as I saw a momentary shock in both their eyes. I had finally got to ‘Stan and Ollie’.
That thought kept me mildly happy as I dressed then signed at the desk for my watch, keys, wallet and lighter. I felt sure I should have had more money in the wallet, but I wasn’t in a position to argue.
The sun was just coming up as I left the station and headed down the steps to Maryhill Road. An office cleaner passed me, and she looked me up and down before turning up her nose.
“Rough night, son?” she said.
I grunted at her, and lit another cigarette. Combined with my first fresh air for twelve hours, it brought on a fit of coughing.
She stepped back away from me.
“If you’re going to throw up, do it over in the bushes “ she said, pointing me over to her left. “It’s my turn to do the steps, and I don’t need any more shit than I get already.”
I nodded—I wasn’t ready to speak again just yet.
The rain had finally stopped, and the streets glistened silver in the new sun. Milkmen and paperboys were out and about, and young executives keen to make their mark revved up their BMWs.
The town was waking up for the day, but it was welcome to it. I trudged wearily home, dropped my clothes on the bedroom floor, and fell into bed. I was unconscious in seconds.
Four
I didn’t wake up again till gone one o’clock in the afternoon. I stood under the coldest shower for ten minutes, and even then it took two coffees and a cigarette to get my brain into gear. There was a pervading stink of stale vomit in the bedroom, and it was only then that I remembered the sickness on my trousers. After consigning all of yesterday’s clothes to the washing machine I went to search my admittedly sparse wardrobe.
I had to settle for a very old pair of black jeans that were faded to a charcoal gray, and a white cotton shirt that had been pulled and twisted until it looked like I carried several bags of potatoes under it. I partially covered it with a black waistcoat, but I looked too much like an extra from The Godfather that it had to go. I found an old black cord jacket that looked slightly better. All I needed was Doug’s spectacles and I’d look like a schoolteacher. And least I didn’t look like I meant to kill anybody.
I realized that I felt ready for work, raring to go. Sometime during the night, or maybe during my sleep, I’d finished mourning Wee Jimmy, and my maudlin period over Liz had passed for a couple more months.
I poured another coffee. It had stewed to a thick black consistency that was just about what I needed at that point.
I was ready. I sat at my desk and lifted The Little Sister from the drawer. Five minutes later I was lost completely, and it was only when I lifted my coffee and found it was cold that I came back. I’d been away, to somewhere where men were men and lost woman with problems were not all that they seemed. I knew what he meant.
I noticed with a shock that it was getting on for three o’clock. Tonight was the night that Durban went out to play with his ‘old folk’, and I meant to find out what went on—I’d have to get a move on if I wanted to be in place at the right time to follow him.
I checked the weather before going out, and realized that I’d need a coat. I chose my long cream Macintosh. I belted it up, turned up the collar, and did my Bogey impressions in front of the mirror for a while. I still couldn’t keep a cigarette in my mouth for more than five seconds at a time—I’d never fathom how he did it. I decided against the trilby. I’d bought it a long time ago, but never had the nerve to wear it out in Glasgow. There’s only so much abuse that I was prepared to take.
There was no mail in the box at the bottom of the stairs, not even any bills, which was just as well—I was spending my fee just about as fast as I was making it. In that last hour before Newman and Hardy turned up in The Rock, I’d bought too many drinks for people I didn’t know, and they were only too happy to take them. Then again, I’d just made a couple of hundred pounds while locked up in a police station. That story might get me some of the drinks back the next time I was in.
I had a long look around the parked cars when I got to street level, but there were no police-types loitering in the area. Either Stan and Ollie weren’t having me followed yet, or policemen had got a lot better at blending in with their environment.
Although it was raining, the sun, low in the sky and slanting through thin cloud, h
urt my eyes, and I was seriously thinking about investing in a pair of sunglasses. Then I remembered that I lived in Glasgow—it wasn’t worth it, not for ten days out of a year.
Old Joe was in his usual place behind the counter in the newsagents. He saw me coming and waved two packs of cigarettes at me—Camels in one hand, Marlboro in the other. He raised an eyebrow. I plumped for the Marlboro; my throat wouldn’t take much more of the others.
He also handed me an early edition of the Evening Express.
“I missed you this morning, Derek. Out working?”
“Aye. Something like that “ I said, but didn’t elaborate. Joe had one of the loosest mouths in town, and it wouldn’t be good business if it got around that I’d spent a night with Glasgow’s finest boys in blue.
Not that the news wouldn’t get around quickly enough anyway—the bush telegraph was highly efficient in this part of Glasgow. I just didn’t see why I should be the one to set it going.
Joe seemed distracted, though. He had begun talking again almost before I’d answered him.
“It’s a shame about auld Jimmy. Who would dae a thing like that to an old man? Hanging’s too good for the likes of them.”
I muttered something that I hoped sounded like agreement, not wanting to get drawn into the argument. Joe believed that all of society’s ills would be cured by bringing back the birch, locking up everyone under the age of twenty-one, then putting them in the army. He also advocated the automatic death penalty for anything involving bodily harm, forced repatriation for all non-whites, and the cutting off of body parts for theft.
Some days I knew how he felt and even came close to agreeing with him, but today wasn’t one of them.
“Anyway “ he said, “the funeral’s tomorrow—twelve o’clock at St Bridget’s in Clarkston. Will I see you there?”
“Aye, sure “ I said. “I’ll come and see the old chap off. Somebody’s got to.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry on that score. The old man had plenty of friends. There’ll be a big turnout.”
I gave him a wave as I left. He went back to standing still behind the counter. The old man stood there, day in, day out, for more than fifteen hours. He had a wife who took over to allow him time to eat, but the rest of the time he stood there, from six a.m. to nine p.m. every day including Christmas. It was either dedication or stupidity. I wasn’t sure which, but I wished I had his stamina.
The Midnight Eye Files Collection Page 9