The Midnight Eye Files Collection

by William Meikle

  It was time to add another brick to that alibi.

  “Excuse me,” I said, loud enough so that everybody in the place could hear me. “You need to think about the surface area of the pizza. Area is Pi times the radius squared. So two times five squared, times Pi, is fifty times pi square inches for the two ten inch ones. Whereas eight squared is sixty-four times pi for the sixteen inch. So the sixteen is twenty-eight per cent better value for money.”

  The place went deathly quiet for two seconds, before the young woman turned back to the girl who was serving her.

  “So, two ten inch pizzas at four pounds each, that’s better than a sixteen inch pizza at eight pounds isn’t it?”

  The serving girl agreed with her.

  “It’s no use trying to educate anybody round here,” an older man said behind me. “They think that Pi is something you eat.”

  “Shut yer face ye old bastard,” the girl said,

  “Bastard,” the three year old echoed with a grin.

  The old man shrugged and turned away. I got a glare from the three year old. I tried smiling back, but the kid looked like it didn’t know the meaning of the gesture.

  Ten minutes later the girl left with her two pizzas. She gave me a self-satisfied smirk as she left, as if she’d put one over on me.

  “See,” she said, showing me the pizza boxes. “Two tens .... better than sixteen.”

  “Come and see me if you ever need a quote for getting your walls painted,” I said. “I’ll do you a good deal.”

  All that got me was another blank stare. She turned and left, but the three year old still had a parting shot. It kicked me in the shins, and ran away, giggling.

  There were two kids ready to get served in front of me, small and rotund, rolls of fat hanging under tight sweatshirts. I couldn’t tell what sex they were, but they were no more than eleven years old, and already the size of small elephants.

  “A deep fried Mars bar and chips,” the one on the left said.

  “Same for me,” the other added, “But with curry sauce.”

  I looked over at the huge man manning the fryer. His belly was a warning to the kids of what was to come later for them.

  “Tweedledee and Tweedledum eh?” I said, pointing.

  Once more I got a blank stare.

  “No. That’s Sean and Jason McGuire. I don’t know any Tweedles.”

  I didn’t bother with the cabaret act this time... I don’t think he would have been able to keep up. I contented myself with collecting another receipt to add to my wallet.

  The fish and chips left salt, vinegar and grease on my hands as I ate while I walked down towards the river. Eating fish and chips in the open air always reminded me of summer days as a kid, a magic that never quite left me no matter how old I got. Even in the center of a run-down former industrial giant like Glasgow I could almost hear the screams of people on the roller coaster, taste the candy floss and feel salt spray on my face. I let those thoughts wash the case away, just for a short while, as I strolled, not really caring where I was going.

  When I finished I wiped my hands on the paper, dropped it in a litter-bin, and made my way to the Unicorn.

  The Unicorn is a run-down bar on the edge of the old docks, a dank, dingy, drinking hole with battered 1960's furniture, tattered linoleum flooring and a pervading smell of tobacco, stale beer and fresh urine. If you wandered in searching for a warm welcome and friendly discourse you'd be sorely disappointed. This wasn’t a bar for the faint hearted. It was a drinking establishment, pure and simple. There was no ‘theme’ here, no games consoles, no CD jukebox, just a solitary television above the bar, and even that had its volume turned right down. No, what we had here was a bar in the old style... a place where men came to drink in the company of other men, and talk about anything except their work. I’d been in before, but it had been years before. I was pleased to see that the place hadn’t changed at all.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air over figures hunched across small wooden tables. Most of the patrons had both beer and whisky on the table in front of them, and more than a few looked like they’d been sitting in the bar since opening time that morning. Not that they were drunk, no, not yet. But the noise level in the bar rose as the drink started speaking. Over in the far left corner menace hung in the air as voices were raised in anger and a chair got overturned, but the barman put a quick stop to any nonsense with a well-timed curse. I took up a stool at the bar and started to build another brick in the wall of that alibi.

  I ordered a pint of Guinness and paid with a fifty, making sure that the patrons around me noticed. And as I’d suspected, a new friend found me less than two minutes later. I hadn’t even started the Guinness when a small wiry man sidled onto the stool next to mine.

  “You got a light, mate?” he said, the standard opening gambit in pubs the world over. A self-rolled cigarette hung in the corner of his mouth, so thin there could be hardly more than a thread of tobacco in it.

  I countered by using the Zippo, putting as much flourish into it as I could muster. I lit myself a Camel at the same time, leaving the nearly full pack on the bar in front of me. His eyes kept straying to them.

  “Nice lighter,” he said. His breath smelled worse that the fish market down the road, and I took a quick gulp of Guinness and a long hit of smoke, hoping that would be enough to disguise it.

  It wasn’t.

  I couldn’t tell how old he might be. He looked somewhere between fifty and eighty, and so thin to be almost skeletal. His face looked gray, thick with grime, and he wore a nylon tracksuit that might have been fashionable sometime round about 1980 but was now held together with safety pins and tape. He held a half-pint of lager that had gone flat... he’d probably been working on it for hours.

  I knew what he’d say next.

  “Can you lend me a fiver for a wee drink?” he said.

  “Jimmy, leave the gent alone,” the barman said. “I’ve told you before. There’s to be nae mooching in the bar.”

  I waved the barman away.

  “No, it’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

  The barman looked astonished.

  “You don’t have to worry sir, I’ll get rid of him,” he said.

  I shook my head and turned to the wee man who looked as surprised as the barman.

  “Jimmy is it?”

  He nodded. With his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide he looked just like a puppy. My guess was he had about the same level of intelligence.

  “Here,” I said to the barman, handing him a fiver, “Give the man a drink.”

  Jimmy suddenly thought I was his best friend. He threw an arm around my shoulder, and I nearly gagged at the sudden whiff of his armpits.

  “Ta pal,” he said. “I’ve had a drooth all day, but this bunch of sad-asses in here wouldnae even gie me the time o’day. After all I did for this country as weel.”

  “You were in the Forces?” I asked, prising him off me, gently, so as not to disturb any other odors that might be looking for an opportunity to escape.

  “Jimmy in the forces? Aye, that’ll be right,” the barman said. “The only thing he ever did for his country was getting himself arrested for nutting an Englishman after Scotland won at Wembley.”

  “He was asking for it,” Jimmy said. “He called Jinky Johnston a wee ginger poof.”

  The barman moved over to the tall font.

  Jimmy went quiet. Suddenly all his attention was focussed on the golden liquid that was coming out of the tap. I watched as the barman poured a pint of lager and Wee Jimmy drooled. As he took the drink his hands shook so badly that the foam of the head started spilling over the side, but the glass wasn’t full for long ... half the pint disappeared in the first gulp. He smiled at me, his lower face a mask of foam.

  I noticed that the area around me had gone quiet. The locals looked at me as if I was mad.

  “You shouldn’t encourage him,” the barman said to me. “It only makes him worse.”

  “It�
�s my good deed for the day,” I said.

  “We don’t need any Boy Scouts,” he said, “But I wouldnae turn down a couple of Girl Guides.”

  He turned back to Jimmy.

  “You just get the one Jimmy,” he said. “Just be glad I’m in a good mood. Mooch at the bar again and you’ll get my boot up your arse.”

  Jimmy scuttled away to a corner.

  “He saw you coming,” the barman said as he handed me my change. “You’re too soft.”

  “Aye. My missus is always telling me the same thing. I blame the beer.”

  That got a laugh. Noise filled in around me and the bar went back to normal. I was no longer a stranger. I was just someone else drinking in the bar. But once more I’d made sure I would be remembered.

  I stayed in the bar for an hour. Two men came in and stood at the bar beside me. They wore suits and carried briefcases... office types working late and in for a quick drink before home.

  “Can I buy you a drink, gents?” I asked.

  “He’s the big spender tonight,” the barman added, “I’d take him up on it quick before wee Jimmy comes back.”

  We passed the time about the state of the Scottish railway system. We all agreed it was a) crap and b) too expensive. No deep thoughts, but that was two more bricks in the alibi.

  I joined in a game of brag at a table near the bar, winning eight pounds and thirty pence. I made sure that everyone at the table knew that I’d spent the day in the Mitchell Library, bought them all a beer, then I went back to the stool at the bar. Once I’d got another Guinness I told the barman my life story. Barmen are good at listening, and this one listened for twenty minutes.

  I finished my beer and left. The fog had cleared and the night was clear and bright, a new moon hanging over the Clyde, shimmering. I crossed the network of roads that separated the town from the riverside, stood at the wall and watched the river flow while I smoked another cigarette.

  I’d asked for the big case, now here it was, fallen in my lap whether I liked it or not. I was used to dealing with small local concerns among people I knew. I wasn’t sure I was ready for newspapers, television and the steady, unblinking, stare of every copper in the country.

  I headed for the only place I knew I would be safe.

  At the bottom end of Byres Road are several bars that keep the flame of old Glasgow burning. George let me in to the Twa Dugs Bar when I gave the Indian sign on the window.

  I’d been coming here since I was not long out of school, some twenty years before. The décor hadn’t changed much; the urinals still smelt of stale beer and piss, the carpet still needed a clean, and old George still had a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

  A long mahogany bar ran the length of the far side of the room, high stools spaced along its length. Between me and it sat an array of tables of different shapes, sizes and ages, some formica tops, some mock burnished copper, some scratched and stained wood. The chairs stacked on the tables were the same mish-mash, plastic, pine and padded leather. Along the three walls ran a leather bench, ticking escaping in places, other rips badly patched with black tape. The wallpaper had at one time been floral flock, but was now stained yellow with nicotine and the windows, over a hundred years old and inlayed with adverts for long defunct breweries, hadn’t been cleaned in living memory.

  As you can imagine, the pub doesn’t get much tourist traffic; it is tucked away in an alley, and tourists are seduced by the bigger, more modern bars further up Byres Road itself. That is one of the reasons they stay away. The sign in the window might also have something to do with it. George put it up himself years ago, and it is fading now, but its message is clear.

  “This is a bar. That means we sell alcohol. We may also sometimes sell you a packet of crisps or a mutton pie and beans, but we do not guarantee to have any food on the premises. If you want food, I suggest you go to a restaurant. But if it’s booze you’re after, come on in, we’ve got plenty.”

  Some days passed without a single non-familiar face entering the bar. George had got adept at studying the few tourists who stood outside and read the note. He could always tell when they’d turn away, or when they’d come in. It was a knack he’d learned over the twenty-five years he’d stood in the same spot.

  Back when I’d first met him he’d been one of the few publicans who would never allow anyone under age anywhere near his bar. I’d tried to sneak under his radar several times, but he was too wily, and I always ended up getting shown the door, usually with a well-aimed boot in my backside. Even then we teenagers knew that the Dugs was where the dark side of the town did its business, a place away from the University where real life happened. And George was at the hub of it all, the man who knew what was what.

  Grey hairs showed at his temples now, and he carried a bit of extra bulk around the waist, but he still knew more about what went on in town than anybody else. He made a nice sideline in tipping off both cops and criminals, and he ran the biggest card game for miles around in the quiet room in the back.

  “Derek. Good to see you. The usual?”

  Normal opening hours didn’t apply to George; something to do with the favours he put the way of the local police.

  “No. Better not,” I replied sadly. “I’m working.”

  “A word not often used in your vocabulary,” he said, laughing.

  “Not recently anyway.”

  The ruin of the night’s drinking still covered the bar. A young girl made a slow job of clearing it up.

  “Get a move on lassie,” George shouted.

  “Students,” he said to me, “I thought they were supposed to be smart?” He smiled. “So where have you been hiding? The lads have had nobody to fleece for a couple of months.”

  “I’ve been out of funds,” I said, “But I’m not here to play poker. I’m in trouble.”

  “Copper trouble?”

  I nodded.

  “And any minute now.”

  George turned to the cleaning girl.

  “This man wasn’t here. You never saw him... you don’t know what he looks like. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Three monkeys... I get it.”

  George smiled.

  “Maybe she’s not so stupid after all.”

  He turned back to me.

  “So what’s this all about?”

  The belt chose that moment to start squirming again. Once more I grabbed at it.

  “You can get ointment for that,” George said, laughing.

  I took the belt from my pocket, and it went quiet in my hand.

  George offered me a cigarette. To light it, I had to put the hair belt down on the counter.

  George saw it, but said nothing. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him... we both understood that.

  “It’s high profile George,” I said. “A toff is dead... and I was there. It’s going to be wall to wall cops and reporters come morning.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Somewhere to crash... that’s all. For now anyway.”

  “You can have the back room again. Come on through.”

  I picked up the belt, put it back in my pocket, and followed him along the narrow corridor that led to the rear bar.

  And that’s when I stopped believing in coincidence.

  My subconscious noticed something. I turned, and read the advert... only one among many others, but it almost shouted at me.

  All this week at 8:30pm

  Goth One

  For the last ever performances

  The Dubh Sithe presents

  The Return of the Crimson King

  I took the poster off the wall as George showed me into the back room. There were a couple of armchairs, a television and an ashtray. I knew from long experience there was also a small cloakroom out the back. It was a bolt-hole, no more, no less.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, and managed a smile.

  “It’s yours for as long as you need it,” George said.

  I shook his hand.


  “Thanks George. I wouldn’t have asked but...”

  He nodded.

  “I know... it’s important. It always is with you.”

  He smiled when he said it, but I knew George well enough. This was a favor, and I would owe him one back.

  He left and closed the door. I lit a cigarette and tried to settle, tried to make sense of what had happened.

  Something had been in that room back in the Lord’s house... something powerful.

  The belt chose that moment to squirm again, but it stopped almost immediately.

  Down boy, I whispered.

  It looked like I’d been right earlier. I’d taken another step into the Twilight Zone. I didn’t seek out the occult, but it had a way of finding me, however much I tried to disbelieve. Now this had come to be more than just a case... this was a fight for my freedom, against something I couldn’t touch, couldn’t see.

  I felt like punching something, anything, but settled for smoking another cigarette. I showed it who was boss though. I stubbed it out, hard, leaned back in the armchair, closed my eyes, and tried to relax.

  But ease would not come. Collins was there, behind my eyelids, shuddering violently as the power ran through him. It would be a while before his dead eyes stopped reproaching me.

  I sat up straight and lit yet another cigarette.

  I stared at the wallpaper. At least it was gracious enough not to stare back. At some point I finally managed to sleep.

  George woke me in the morning. My back felt as if it had been welded to the armchair, and something dry and furry had slept in my mouth.

  “Did ye have a good night?” George asked, smiling.

  Before I could reply, he moved past me and switched on the television.

  “You need to see this,” he said. “I’m thinking you might have to get used to that chair for a few more nights.”

  The television warmed up slowly, and the reporter’s face was bright pink, but the gist of the story was all too clear.

  A small army of reporters jostled for position outside Collins’ house, which was lit up by a battery of floodlights, despite the fact that dawn had already broken. Several harassed policemen tried to hold the press at bay, and the news reporter had to shout to be heard over the din.