Blood City

by Douglas Skelton

  The soft rain had stopped and Byres Road was all hustle, even at that time of night, but the Gardens were silent. The far side was lined by sandstone buildings, by day busy university offices but quiet and empty by night. Davie spotted the girl’s white suit in the gloom of the Gardens as she walked across the grass, Sinclair close behind her. Davie quickened his pace, a roar growing in his ears as he moved.

  * * *

  Audrey was lost in thought as she crossed the grass, slick from the earlier rain. She was pissed off with her friends for their indulgence of those two morons, playing up to their coarse remarks and simpering at their obvious jokes. She probed in her handbag for her car keys and found she was more annoyed at herself for having stayed so long. They had planned to go dancing in the city centre later, but she’d soon realised that they would insist on taking those two. It was a night lost.

  She was aware of movement behind her and she turned just as Sinclair reached her.

  ‘You never gave me a kiss goodnight, hen,’ he said, lunging the final couple of feet towards her. She had no chance to make a sound before one arm was round her shoulders, the other clamped onto her mouth. He stuck his face into her hair and hissed, ‘Scream or anything, darling, and it’ll make things worse for you…’

  His hand slowly loosened from her mouth and began to slide down her chin and her neck towards her chest. ‘Let’s have a wee look to see what you’ve got under this suit, eh, darling?’

  It was then, mercifully, that the dark-haired guy she’d seen looking her way in the pub appeared…

  * * *

  Sinclair was evidently too intent on the girl’s body to notice Davie appear behind him, the Coke bottle sliding out from under his sleeve. Davie tapped him on the shoulder, and when Sinclair looked round in surprise, swung the bottle at his forehead. He was aware of the girl’s eyes widening as she saw the bottle coming her way, but Davie’s aim was true and the heavy base clunked Sinclair just above the nose. He stumbled back, releasing the girl, and Davie stepped in, the bottle swinging again, this time catching Sinclair on the cheek bone with a satisfying crack. Sinclair’s hands darted to his face but Davie simply moved forward, battering his head and hands, on some level noting that the solid glass had not shattered, but even if it did it wouldn’t matter, because then he would use it to cut and to tear. It was something his dad had told him, a trick the old boys knew – that a good quality bottle was a double weapon.

  Audrey watched as he methodically went about the business of beating the other one and, God help her, she derived some measure of satisfaction from it. She had seen him in the pub before, watching her, but curiously had not felt uncomfortable under his gaze. There was something different about him now though. His face was blank as he swung the bottle, no expression, no sign of exertion, nothing. And his blue eyes were so cold, so distant as he lashed out, forcing the creep further from her. It was as if something inhuman had taken over.

  Sinclair fell back without a sound, retreating, trying to escape the rain of blows. He hadn’t even registered who it was giving him such a beating, all he felt was searing agony as the guy kept battering the shite out of him. He had a carpet knife in his pocket but he couldn’t reach it, not with the blows raining down. If he could get it, he’d sort this guy out, no problem, if he could just drop one hand away from his face long enough to reach down into his trouser pocket…

  And then he was down on his knees, arms slumping to his side, blood streaming, pain blazing through his body. Thoughts of the blade were gone now, all he wanted was it to stop, just stop, that’s all, just stop the blows coming, please God, all he’d wanted from her was a wee kiss and a cuddle, just make it stop, he didn’t deserve this…

  Suddenly it all stopped and he heard the girl give a small gasp so he opened one puffy eye to see his man Boyle standing over Davie McCall.

  * * *

  Davie, like Sinclair before him, had been too intent on his work to notice Boyle’s approach. The roaring in his ears was too loud, his vision focussed solely on the prostrate figure in front of him as he worked, swinging the bottle back and forth. He first realised that he had made a mistake when he felt hands on his shoulders pulling him away. He spun around into a crouch, ready to ward off a new attack, but a fist connected with his nose and he staggered back. Two further rapid-fire punches followed before Boyle grabbed his lapels, stepped in closer and jutted his head sharply into his nose in a stellar example of the Glasgow Kiss. Boyle rammed his knee up into his crotch and a further wave of sharp pain filled Davie’s body. He almost doubled over, but Boyle held onto him and drove his knee into his balls a second time. Davie felt the searing agony rage through him and his knees began to buckle. This time Boyle let him go, stepping back before spinning around quickly, his foot swinging up and slamming into Davie’s ribs. He grunted and tumbled onto his side just as Boyle’s boot connected with his ribs again. A third vicious kick slammed into to the side of his head. The sharp focus that had got him through the attack on Sinclair completely evaporated as his vision erupted with colour and the roaring in his ears was replaced by a sharp, piercing whine. His head snapped sharply to the side and he rolled onto his back. He was still conscious, which was something, he thought.

  Boyle turned to his pal and said, ‘You okay, mate?’ Sinclair nodded, rising unsteadily to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes. ‘Then hold on to her – don’t want her fetching help.’

  Their voices were muffled by the harpies screeching in his head, but Davie moved his eyes to see the girl. She had seemingly been paralysed by the sudden violence and had stood for the few seconds the fight had lasted as if rooted to the spot. Now, as they looked at her, that numbing shock ebbed and Davie saw her move. But Sinclair grabbed her, his bloody hands staining the pristine white of her suit. He pulled her in against him, hands moving around her waist and snaking under her jacket, his groin pressed against her buttocks. A look of utter disgust flashed across her face and her arm shot up as she tried to jab her elbow into his nose. Good for you, Davie thought, but Sinclair was ready for it. He blocked the attack with his free hand and twisted her arm behind her back. She struggled against him but Sinclair held her firm, one hand wedging her arm behind her, his other wrapped around her waist. Davie had hurt him, but obviously not enough, because he was still up to sliding that hand upwards to cup her breast while his head nuzzled at her hair and into her neck. ‘Just hang about, hen,’ Davie heard him whisper, ‘My pal’ll no be long, then we’ll have some fun…’

  Davie struggled to get up but found something was holding him down. He had felt like this once before, and matters then had not turned out well. That time he had been forced to watch as his father killed his mother. He heard the sound of glass shattering and he focussed once more on Boyle, who had found the Coke bottle and smashed it on some stone steps leading up from the gardens to the street. Boyle stood over him, looking at the jagged weapon in his right hand for a second before transferring it to his left, and smiling. Davie knew that if he did not get to his damned feet, the pain he felt now would be nothing compared to what Boyle would inflict.

  ‘It’s been a long time comin, but I’m gonnae fuck you up big time, son,’ Boyle said, placing his right hand on Davie’s shoulder as he continued to struggle to get up. ‘Danny McCall’s boy, eh? You’re nothing but a piece of meat now, son, and I’m gonnae carve you…’

  ‘Ach, Boyle, you always did talk far too much.’ The quip came from behind them, and Davie saw Boyle’s head jerk in its direction. Davie knew that voice well and had never been happier to hear it in his life. Rab stood a few feet away from them, Bobby and Mouthy just behind him. Rab was smiling, albeit with little humour. ‘I’d put that down before you cut yourself.’

  ‘Fucker deserves what I’m gonnae give him, Rab – look what he did to my mate…’

  Rab turned his gaze on Sinclair and sneered at the boy’s swollen and bleeding face. ‘Bit of an improvement if you ask me. And let the lassie go, for God’s sake, you’ve ruined
her nice suit.’

  Sinclair did as he was told, stepping away from her as if she had plague. Boyle rolled his eyes.

  ‘Help Davie up, lads,’ said Rab. Bobby and Mouthy stooped to haul Davie to his feet. He tried to not to wince or let the pain that sliced through him show on his face as he hung between them like a wet washing.

  ‘You’ve still no dropped that, Boyle,’ said Rab, nodding at the jagged bottle in his hand. ‘Don’t make me take it away from you.’

  Boyle looked down at the broken bottle as if he had forgotten all about it and let it fall to the ground. Davie knew that Boyle had taken him down thanks to the benefit of surprise, much as he himself had done with Sinclair. Rab McClymont, on the other hand, was big, powerful and an accomplished street fighter. Boyle had lost his edge and he knew it. Davie saw the red-haired boy’s eyes move from Rab to glare at him while his left hand unconsciously drifted to a silver signet ring on his right and began to twirl it round his finger.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said the girl, and before anyone else knew it, she had hefted her foot squarely between Sinclair’s legs. He squealed and his knees crooked as his hands moved to his groin.

  Bobby laughed. ‘She shoots, she scores!’

  Audrey looked at Sinclair with contempt. ‘You ever come near me again, you fucking creep, I’ll kill you.’

  Rab smiled in approval. ‘I think she means it, lads. I’d stay well clear. Now, be good boys and fuck off.’

  Boyle supported his pal as they moved across the grass. Rab turned to watch them, not moving until they had turned out of sight.

  ‘We need to call the police,’ said the girl. ‘We can’t just let them walk away like that.’

  Rab ignored her and said to Davie, ‘You okay, mate?’

  Davie had regained enough of his strength to be able to stand on his own but his head throbbed, his chest ached and his balls burned. ‘I never saw him coming.’

  ‘Always watch out for the bastard at your back. Still, it’s a wee lesson for you, son – you’re no Superman. You can get hurt…’

  ‘Superman can get hurt, wi kryptonite,’ said Mouthy.

  ‘Aye well, there’s no a lot of that about in Glasgow, Mouthy,’ said Bobby, smiling.

  The girl frowned. ‘Is no one listening to me? We need to get the police – and your friend here should go to the hospital.’

  ‘Hen,’ said Rab facing her, ‘I think you’re smart enough to understand that we’re no about to involve The Law in anything. And that goes for hospitals, too.’

  ‘But he could be badly hurt. That guy kicked him in the face…’

  ‘Hospitals ask questions that we wouldn’t want to answer. And that brings us right back to The Law again. We’ll see to Davie, he’ll be fine. C’mon, lads.’

  Davie stopped beside her as his friends walked across the grass. Rab looked back and halted, too.

  Davie asked her, ‘You be okay?’

  ‘Yes… thanks – for what you did.’

  He shrugged but she reached out with one hand and gently touched his face. He saw her eyes were green now and they were wet with tears. ‘No, I mean it,’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t come along I don’t know what would’ve happened.’ He looked down at the ground, sheepishly. The touch of her hand on his skin had felt like an electric shock. ‘My name’s Audrey, by the way, Audrey Burke.’

  ‘Davie McCall.’

  ‘Thank you, Davie McCall.’

  ‘Okay… Audrey Burke.’ He tried to smile but his face hurt.

  ‘Here…’ she opened her handbag and rifled inside, coming up with a card. ‘Take this, call me. It’s got my office number on it.’

  Davie took the card and saw the masthead of the Evening Times, Glasgow’s evening paper, emblazoned in red, alongside her name and the word ‘Reporter’. He slipped the card in his pocket and nodded to her. She smiled and he moved off to join his friends.

  ‘See?’ said Rab as they walked away, ‘How hard was that?’

  13

  SITTING ACROSS A DESK from Gentleman Jack Bannatyne after a nightshift could be a demoralising experience. He was iron-grey of hair but still firm of jaw. His blue suit looked as if it had been bought that morning from Slater’s (the city centre tailor’s that was a favourite among cops), his shirt was crisply ironed and was so white Donovan felt the need for sunglasses just to look at it, his light blue tie so neatly knotted at his throat it would win a Boy Scout merit. But both Knight and Donovan knew there was another explanation for their superior’s nickname. According to the neds, he was called Gentleman Jack because he always kept his gloves on when he beat a confession out of a suspect.

  It was the end of their nightshift and both Donovan and Knight looked and felt downright seedy. Unshaven, tousled, red-eyed and with breath reeking of too much coffee and tobacco, Donovan at least was desperate to get home and fall asleep. But before they could log off, they had to report to Bannatyne what Sibby had coughed up.

  ‘Sibby told us about this guy, Andy Tracy,’ Knight said. ‘Pal of his, apparently. Anyway, he said that Andy’d been boasting about doing a number on Norrie Kennedy, trying to impress, you know? Build up his rep.’

  Bannatyne frowned. ‘Heard of this boy?’

  Knight shook his head. ‘He’s a new one on me, boss.’

  Donovan was shocked – he was beginning to think that Knight knew every scroat in the city.

  ‘Anyway,’ Knight went on, ‘we went round to this place where Sibby said the boy was staying but it was empty. Looked like a giro drop to me. Spoke to an old biddy next door and she said she’d no seen him all week. That would be from just before Norrie got done.’

  Bannatyne sat behind his desk, his fingers drumming a pile of files as he considered the new information. ‘This boy got a record?’

  ‘Usual stuff; gangs, thefts, breaches – nothing that big.’

  ‘Firearms?’

  ‘Did a hotel over once with a shotgun, but he got off with it.’

  ‘How’d he get off with it?’

  ‘Bloody good lawyer who spotted a flaw in the evidence record.’

  ‘God bless Legal Aid, eh?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Donovan turned away, his stomach turning at the sight and sound of Knight touching the forelock. Bannatyne was a good copper and a good boss, but Donovan wondered how he could sit behind his desk looking so comfortable with Knight’s lips plastered to his arse.

  Bannatyne asked, ‘This scroat got any known affiliations?’

  Knight shook his head. ‘Nothing noteworthy, the usual roster of scumbags.’

  ‘Any leads to where he is now?’

  ‘Working on it, boss.’

  Bannatyne thought about this for a moment, then nodded once. ‘Okay, go home the pair of you, you look washed out. We’ll get the dayshift onto nosing around for this boy, you can get back to it tonight.’

  The two detectives got up and left. All Donovan wanted to do was get home to his Marie and Jessica, his wife and baby daughter, get as far away from Knight as possible. In the corridor outside Knight said, ‘Liked the way you handled Sibby last night, Frankie boy. Never thought you had it in you…’

  ‘Fuck off, Knight,’ said Donovan and walked away. He was too tired to think of a riposte with any kind of finesse to it.

  * * *

  Rab was heading out to fill Joe in on the events of the previous night when Knight whistled at him from a dark blue Cortina parked at the closemouth. Rab looked around him, concerned that someone might see them talking.

  ‘Relax,’ said Knight, ‘it’s too early in the morning for anyone to be about.’

  ‘How’d you know I’d be up?’

  ‘You’re an early riser, Rab – that’s why you’ll go far.’

  ‘Even so, we shouldnae be seen talking to each other…’

  ‘Ach, don’t get your knickers in a twist, son. It’s natural that I’m gonnae give you a pull every now and then.’

  Rab had to agree with this. Being hassled by the filth was
an accepted part of The Life and always had been. It was just that their new arrangement made Rab nervous.

  Knight asked, ‘You heard of a guy called Andrew Tracy?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He part of Joe’s mob?’

  ‘Naw, Joe’d have nothing to do with him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too unpredictable. Joe doesnae like unpredictable. I say Tracy’s too fuckin crazy.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way. The boy’s a few raisins short of a fruit scone, you know what I mean? He’ll dae anything.’

  ‘Would he kill?’

  Rab’s brow puckered. ‘You thinking about him for the Kennedy thing?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Aye, he’s capable of it. Wouldn’t bother him one way or the other.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘You tried his gaffe?’

  ‘Not been there all week.’

  ‘Spoken to his burd, then?’

  Knight’s eyebrows raised. Sibby hadn’t mentioned that Tracy had a girlfriend. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Sylvia something or other, lives in Parkhead, near Celtic Park. McGuigan, Sylvia McGuigan. She’s an old thing, maybe 35, but Tracy likes ‘em older. Probably thinks he’s fuckin his maw or something. I told you he was crazy.’

  Knight drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Right, I’ll try her.’

  ‘Am I gettin paid for this, or anything?’

  ‘That’s no how this works, Rab son. You’re no just a tout. You and me, we’re partners. You keep me appraised of stuff and I’ll look out for you. We’re in this for the long run and the rewards’ll come, don’t worry. This? This is money in the bank for you, Rab.’

  Knight fired up the Cortina’s engine and jerked it into gear. He looked out the open window again and smiled. ‘Money in the bank, son.’

  Rab watched the car move off down the street, which was still deserted, then walked along Sword Street, pondering how often banks got robbed.

  * * *