The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

  Two fucking hours, standing in the street like an idiot. Just lurching around, people coming and going. Getting hungry, but nowhere he can go to grab something to eat. Nowhere that he could still see the cinema doors from. People are seeing him, hanging around. Bloody stupid, this is. But he can’t go in, he knows that. Got to hang around and wait. Keep watching the door. Keep your distance. Be smart.

  He was impatient by the time Peterkinney came out of there. Walking along a busy and well-lit street. Fraser knows better than to attack now. But what if this is the perfect place to attack? This is the last place anyone would expect him to attack. They always say that’s the best time. No, not here. Too many people around. Wait until it gets quieter. There’ll be a better chance. Back on the street where they’re both parked. He can just walk up behind him and stick the knife in him. Keep walking to his car. Yeah, that’s the perfect way to do it.

  Except Peterkinney isn’t going back to his car the way he came. He’s taken a turning away off down an adjoining street that takes them further away from their cars. But that’s okay, because he’s walking to a quieter area. There are fewer people, it’s darker. There are more little alleyways down this way. Peterkinney’s leading him closer and closer to his chance. Turning again, into what’s basically a wide alleyway between shops and a multi-storey car park. Fraser keeping close, but not too close. Nobody else down this alleyway.

  Must be going to meet someone. Shit, might be going to meet someone tough. Better get a move on. Get this done and get back to the car. That’s common sense. If your target is going to meet up with someone else then you get to them before the meeting. Even Fraser knows that. He’s turning into the alleyway, wide enough to drive a delivery lorry down, and picking up the pace. Watching the back of Peterkinney as he turns again, out of view. Fuck, must be another alley there. Some little cubbyhole between the shops where Peterkinney can do a deal. Fraser’s jogging now.

  Down the alleyway. More aware of the darkness. More aware of how isolated he is. But he isn’t stopping to think about that. He never stops to think about these things. Some people mistake it for bravery. It isn’t. It’s a failure of brain to keep up with action. Some dumb people get away with it because instinct takes over. Not for Fraser. Instinct is way in the background. So he’s reached the corner. Hardly slowing as he runs round it.

  A hand thudding out and into his side. A cold blast running up his side to his head. A flush of adrenalin, causing him to jump backwards. The adrenalin washed away in blood, and he’s slumping down to his knees. Now onto his side, clutching at the wound.

  ‘Oh Neil, you are so predictable.’

  He can hear Peterkinney. Hear him loud and clear. Not fuzzy or distant. He sounds like he’s standing over him, which he is. Fraser had dropped to the ground, but he knows better than to stay there. Now turning over, getting back onto his knees. There’s blood coming out of a slit in his jacket. He has a hand over it. Got to move. Got to react. Got to do something. Think of something to do next. Come on, hurry up. His mind racing to get there, but always running in the wrong direction. Only a few thoughts entering his head, and most of them come back to dying in this alley.

  ‘You think I didn’t know what you were up to? Huh? You think I’m fucking blind?’ Peterkinney doesn’t sound upset. Not emotional at all. Calm, relaxed, satisfied. Happy with his night’s work. ‘You think I’m as stupid as you are?’ Having fun and taking his time. Not intimidated by Fraser. Not intimidated by the thought of being caught behind a shop with a man he’s just stabbed.

  He had the chance to look around and make sure this place was safe. The car park on one side is lit up, but empty. Nobody moving around in there. The shops behind them are in darkness now. No windows from the shops look out onto this little loading bay anyway. Big doors, covered by corrugated sheeting to deter burglars and encourage graffiti. Silent, dark and perfect for this.

  Fraser’s not listening any more. He’s trying to get his own knife out of his pocket. He’s got his hand on the handle. Taking it out. Struggling for a grip because there’s blood on his hand. Peterkinney’s seen it and he’s laughing. Fraser’s trying to get up to get a slice at him. Putting weight on his feet, but as soon as he starts to push up the pain shoots through him. Up his side, through his neck, up behind the ear. It’s like being stabbed again. So he’s slumping back down. Hand out, trying to prevent him from rolling onto his side.

  Peterkinney’s laughing again, just a little. You’d have to know him well to know that he’s faking it. Good actor. But the laugh has turned hollow; he doesn’t find this funny any more. Time to wrap it up. ‘You tell Marty that this is what’ll happen to anyone who tries to stop me. You understand me, Fraser? You tell him that he can’t lay a finger on me. That he better not try again, or he might be next. You got that?’

  And Peterkinney’s turning and walking away. Back out into the alley from the loading area at the back of the shop. Along the alleyway and out onto the lit street. A bloody knife in his pocket, but that’s okay. He’ll ditch the knife and the top he’s wearing. But this was a good day for him. This message will be enough to deter Marty. Marty isn’t a man to risk failing twice. He doesn’t care enough. If this was about his core business, women, then he would try again. Keep trying until he succeeded. But he’s not going to rock the boat with a second attempt after pissing off Jamieson and Young already this month.

  This was in Peterkinney’s mind from the moment he saw Fraser parked across the street from the office. Not parked nearly far enough away from the office. They have a large window looking out onto the street, for Christ’s sake; easy to see everyone parked on the street. Fraser following him home. Driving right behind him. Right behind him. Unbelievable. Obviously never done something like this before. Marty picked him because he’s expendable. Because people don’t think of him as being one of Marty’s boys. Because he was the only one stupid enough to do it. Stupid enough to carry a grudge from some party months ago. Feels like a lifetime ago. Probably not for Fraser. He hasn’t done much of note since then.

  Only question was what weapon Fraser was planning to use. You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, that’s movie cliché number one. If Fraser had a gun, then this wouldn’t have happened. But Peterkinney decided to take the risk that he wouldn’t. Let’s face it, even Marty wouldn’t be stupid enough to arm Fraser with a gun. Fraser is no gunman. Gunmen are a different breed. If Marty used a real gunman, Peterkinney would be dead now. He knows that. So he made the decision that Fraser only had a knife, and he was right. Predictable enough. That made it an even fight. All he had to do was pick the location.

  Best thing is, Marty won’t make a fuss. Can’t. Fraser isn’t his employee. Which is a good thing if Fraser does the job properly. Nobody can prove Marty was behind it. It becomes a bad thing if Fraser botches the job. Uh-huh, should have seen that coming. Fraser works for Peter Jamieson. Marty just got a Jamieson employee stabbed. Marty won’t admit to being involved. Fraser won’t grass him up either. Fraser will use his mobile to call for help. He’ll be taken to hospital. One of Jamieson’s more intelligent men will go and get him out of the hospital before the police can bamboozle him with anything so fiendish as a question. And nothing more will be said about it.

  Peterkinney’s back to his car. Looking up and down the street to make sure that Fraser didn’t have company. A safety net for the job. Of course he didn’t. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Fraser wouldn’t organize that. Nor would Marty. It’s a two-man job, but he can send one moron instead. It’s cheaper. It carries less personal risk to Marty. Those are the things that matter most to him.

  By the time Peterkinney’s ditched the knife and top and gotten home, it’s pitch black. Still, he’s feeling good. Into the flat and looking around. His flat. His space. His company. Making money for him. This is what he should have been doing ages ago. Never having to live in someone else’s pocket. Bumping into his grandfather every time he opens his bedroom door. Embarrassing
himself with crappy jobs for Marty. That’s no life. The good life is the life you make yourself, any idiot can see that. This is the life.

  10

  He’s gone back to the flat first. Shouldn’t have. Should have gone straight round to the address and gotten the job done. That’s what Potty wanted him to do. Get there and do it without thinking about it. You dwell on it, and you’re going to think of all the reasons why you shouldn’t do it. All the things that can go wrong, and there are plenty of those. But Glass couldn’t rush it like that. Had to come home first.

  He’s called Ella three times and gotten no answer. She’s with one of Potty’s boys. Maybe Potty’s boy is going to keep her there until they know Glass has done the job. Maybe that’s the point. He’s not experienced enough to know. Never been here before. Hopefully she doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t want to think of her being held against her will. Being scared, or even hurt. Sooner he does the job, less chance there is of that happening.

  Walking through the flat. The knife is still in his pocket; he hasn’t taken his coat off since he got home. He can feel that knife weighing him down. Walking from room to room. Not looking for anything. Not expecting to find anything. Just wanting to burn off some nerves. He’s going to kill a man. He has no choice. If he doesn’t, Potty kills him. Maybe Ella too. That was the threat. What choice does he have?

  What choice? There could be a way out. There could. He’s looking at this from a different angle. There are people out there who would like to know about this job. Who might just want to get involved in this little adventure. Throw a spanner in Potty’s works. Except he only knows the phone number of two of them. And neither of them will answer his calls.

  He’s calling Peterkinney first. They were friends. This was the sort of thing they would have told each other about. That they would have helped each other with. Times have changed. Not thick as thieves any more. But this matters to Peterkinney. This is something that he needs to know about. He’s part of the industry now, after all. But the phone’s ringing and ringing and nobody’s answering. Typical. Just bloody typical. Thinking he’s too good for Glass. Well, he’s the one who’s going to lose out.

  Calling Marty. This is a chance for Marty. Get involved in Potty’s business; trip him up in something important. Surely Marty will want that. And a chance for Glass to prove to Marty that he can still be useful. This could be a way in. You deliver information like this, and it can lead to permanent work. Shows Marty how useful he can be, and how much he wants to work for him. Hell, it even involves Ella, and she’s one of Marty’s girls. He has to take an interest. He has to be willing to help. The phone’s ringing. Two rings and it’s answered. That has to be a good sign.

  ‘Yes?’ An aggressive yes.

  ‘Marty, this is Alex Glass. I want to talk to you about something important. Something that’s happening right . . .’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Yeah. Get his wee bum chum to call up and take the piss. Is he hanging over your shoulder listening to this? Is he? Are we on speaker? You tell him from me, okay. You tell him he can go fuck himself, all right.’

  ‘Marty. Marty, it’s Alex Glass. Alex Glass.’ Thinking that Marty doesn’t know who this is. That he’s got him mixed up with someone else. Must have. What else could explain this outburst? ‘I used to work for you. I’m Ella’s boyfriend.’

  ‘I know who you are. And I know what your mate did tonight. You just tell him that this ain’t the end of it. One of Jamieson’s boys got to the hospital. They won’t let this lie. Neither will I. There’ll be a price to pay for this. Can he hear me? A price to pay. I’ll get that little prick. You tell him that.’

  Marty was practically spitting into the phone before he hung up. Not raging and ranting. A cold hatred, hissing out of him. Glass is staring at the phone. Doesn’t know what to do now. Marty’s up a tree about something. Something’s happened and it’s pushed him beyond anything as showy as anger. Glass has no idea what this is about. He mentioned Jamieson and a hospital. That has nothing to do with Glass. Nothing to do with tonight. Maybe it has something to do with Potty. That could be it. Marty thinks Glass is working for Potty already.

  Still walking round the flat. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t want to be understood. Grasp at any passing straw. Phoning Arnie Peterkinney. He needs help. He needs to get through to Oliver.

  ‘Hi, Arnie, this is Alex Glass.’ Feels weird calling him Arnie. Not like they’re close or anything. ‘Do you have Oliver’s new home number?’

  There’s just a little pause. ‘No, I don’t. You can get him on his mobile though.’

  ‘Uh, yeah. I tried. Never mind.’

  ‘Alex, lad, are you okay?’

  Didn’t realize how emotional he was sounding. That he’s close to tears. He knows that if he doesn’t get help, he’s going to be killing a man in the next couple of hours. Or maybe his target will kill him. Why not? Chances are the target’s a damn sight more experienced at this sort of thing. Most people in the business are more experienced than Glass. He’s been close to tears since he left Potty’s house, but he didn’t realize it. Marty was too excitable to notice.

  ‘I’m okay. Just . . . a few things, you know. Stuff. I was really hoping I might get through to Oliver though. I thought he might be able to help me out. I could use a wee bit of a hand with something tonight, that’s all.’

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  It’s weird how much it hurts to hear him ask that. Arnie Peterkinney never liked him. Glass knows that. He knows that Arnie always thought he was a bad influence. And he was. Damn right, old man. Look at where Glass’s influence has gotten them. And yet the old man’s offering to help. The only person who has offered to help him. The only person who would actually sound like he means it. That’s pushing Glass closer to the edge. The only person who wants to help and there’s nothing he can do. Shit, even if he could, Glass wouldn’t let him get involved. The one person who cares enough to offer, you don’t drag him down with you.

  ‘No, no. I can handle it. I just thought it was something Oliver might want to know about. Thought he might benefit from it. Be good, uh, if I could help him out. Listen, it’s no big deal.’ Pulling himself together. Making a show of how small a deal it is. Trying too hard. ‘I’ll sort it out. But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘Okay. Well, take care of yourself, kid.’

  Standing by the front door. Mobile phone tucked back into his pocket. Eyes dried, because you can’t go wandering the streets with tears in your eyes. People will see that. They’ll spot him and think something’s wrong. You have to look like there’s nothing happening. Like it’s no big deal. Biggest deal of his life.

  Out of the flat, into the street and walking. Cold. Bloody freezing. How many things is he doing wrong? How many mistakes is he making that’ll get him caught? Hundreds, probably. The sort of mistakes someone like Peterkinney would laugh at now. Ridicule Glass for it. He had a head for this. He could probably do something like this without even batting an eyelid these days. The quiet one. The nice one. Now the one Glass wishes he had at his side to help him.

  He’s been walking for more than half an hour. Didn’t want to take the bus. Didn’t want to be seen. Seemed like a smart idea, although he’s exhausted now. He’s on the right street. Quiet place. Expensive-looking houses, terraced. Not huge, but the area is good. There are trees on the little verge between the houses and the road. Everything clean and well maintained. Tiny little front gardens, an excuse to give the residents a front gate of their own. Good cars parked outside each house. A good place. Sort of good place Glass shouldn’t be. Sort of good place this shouldn’t happen. It’s quiet. It’s late enough to be quiet.

  Glass is shaking. Not from the cold. That doesn’t matter any more. He’s shaking anyway. He can just about hear his heartbeat. He has a strange feeling, like he’s disconnected from all this. Not out of body or anything like that. That would make it easier. Still very much there. Just not controllin
g himself any more. Watching over his own shoulder, wishing he could take control.

  He’s walking slowly along the street. Looking at numbers on doors. Nothing could be worse than getting the wrong number. He’s found the house. The right number, according to the phone directory. A deep breath. A second deep breath, catching in his throat and almost turning into a sob. Then a moment of panic as he wonders if anyone’s watching him. Glancing frantically round, looking for witnesses. Nobody on the street. Looking for lights in windows, people lurking behind curtains. Can’t see anyone. Pulling up his hood and walking the three steps from the pavement to the door.

  Knocking once. Waiting. Nothing. Knocking again. Come on. Knocking a third time, louder now. Worried that he’s drawing attention to himself. But nobody’s coming to the door. Nobody’s at home. Shit. Potty didn’t tell him what to do if this happened. He doesn’t know.

  Back out onto the street, walking down to the corner. There are no lights on in the house, but that doesn’t matter. It’s late. Might be asleep in bed. Might be lights on at the other side of the house. Maybe he just doesn’t answer the door this late. A man in his position, you wouldn’t, would you. You don’t rush to answer the door if you know a lot of people are out to get you. If he knows people are out to get him. Shit, of course he does. He knows, and he could be in there, waiting for someone like Glass. Or he could be out at work. These would be his work hours, probably. So Glass is standing at the corner. Trying to work out what he’s supposed to do next. Go home. Stay and watch for someone arriving. Or try and force his way into the house.