‘Fuck sake,’ said Boyle, smiling without any warmth, ‘the sights you see when you’ve no got a gun, eh?’
He looked at his pal and Sinclair mumbled something in reply, but Davie had trouble making out the words through the swelling. Then Boyle’s face brightened and he said, ‘No, hang on…’
He lifted the flap of his windbreaker to reveal the butt of a pistol at his waistband. Davie felt his flesh chill despite the warm night. He took a couple of steps closer to the wall so that neither of them could get behind him. Abe’s growl deepened and his hackles rose like a serrated blade along his back. His head dropped until it was level with his ragged back and his entire body tensed. Instinctively, the little dog had taken a dislike to both young men. Davie tightened his grip on the lead.
Boyle was still smiling, which only served to make him look meaner. ‘Out for a wee stroll, Davie?’
‘He likes walking at night,’ said Sinclair, speaking slowly so the words could get past his swollen lips.
‘That right? What are you, son, a fuckin vampire? You scared of crucifixes and garlic and stuff?’
Abe bared his teeth and took a single step forward. Boyle looked down at him for the first time.
‘You keep that mutt away from me, McCall, or I’ll put one in its heid, so help me.’
Davie gave Abe a gentle tug on his lead and the dog edged back closer to his feet. But his throat continued to rumble as he watched Boyle and Sinclair through intense eyes, every now and then baring his white teeth in a silent snarl.
Boyle dropped his jacket over the gun as headlights picked them out. He watched the car pass them by, then swivelled his head back and forward to see who else was on the street. Davie did the same. He saw two young couples walking arm-in-arm on the opposite side of the street and further back a drunk staggered through the final stages of his preparations for the next day’s hangover. Davie glanced upwards to the windows, but no one was looking down on them. If Boyle decided to use the gun there was nothing Davie could do to stop him. The trick would be in preventing Boyle from pulling the weapon in the first place. And that meant Davie would have move first.
‘How’re the ribs, Davie?’
‘Sore.’ Davie replied, knowing there was no point in lying.
‘Doesnae matter,’ said Boyle, shrugging. ‘It’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? No hard feelings, eh, Davie?’
Boyle stepped forward and held out his right hand, the large silver signet ring catching the light from the street lamp beside them. To the casual observer, the move would have looked like an overture of friendship, but Boyle was a leftie and the gun was tucked into the right side of his belt. Davie knew that if he took the proffered hand, Boyle would whip out the gun and blast away. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen soon. Every muscle in Davie’s body tensed, sending pain stabbing through his ribs, but he ignored it. He had to ignore it. He could not let it slow him down.
Boyle let the hand hang there for a few seconds before letting it drop with a shrug. ‘Okay, son, that’s the way you want to play it, fine.’
He looked away nonchalantly, and at the same time his left hand reached under his jacket. But Davie was already moving, dropping Abe’s lead and lunging forward, one hand reaching towards Boyle’s wrist, the other already bunched and pulling back. He saw Boyle’s eyes widen in surprise and he was aware of Sinclair stepping forward and Abe darting between them and barking, his teeth snapping and it was going down beautifully and Davie knew in his heart he had timed everything perfectly and he felt the blood singing through his veins just as he always did when he knew he was onto a winner…
The screech of tyres beside them brought them all to a halt and a voice called out, ‘Everything okay there, Davie?’
Boyle’s hand froze under his jacket, Davie’s grip still firm around his wrist, and they both turned to see Luca leaning out of the open window of his Volvo.
‘I’m fine, Luca,’ said Davie.
‘You wanna lift somewhere?’
Davie felt the heat returning to his body and the roaring in his ears faded to a whisper. He forced a smile. ‘Sure, Luca, that’d be great.’
He let go of Boyle’s arm and, without taking his eyes off him, stooped to find Abe’s lead. He led the still snarling dog towards the car.
‘This isn’t done yet,’ said Boyle, quietly. ‘There’s a change coming, Davie, and you and your pals are gonnae be surplus to fuckin requirements. But you and me, son, we’re gonnae have a reckonin, so we are. I’m gonnae have you, Davie McCall…’ His voice rose to a high pitched nasal whine, ‘… and your little dog, too!’
Boyle laughed, Sinclair joining in enthusiastically. Davie said nothing as he walked round the front of the car, opened the rear door to let Abe leap in, and climbed into the passenger seat. Luca stared at the two young men on the pavement for a long, hard moment and their smirks slid away as they sensed the malevolence in the man. Then the Sicilian released the handbrake and drove off.
Davie craned his neck to look back and saw the two of them watching the car. Even at this distance, Davie could feel the heat of Boyle’s glare, and he wondered just what it was that was eating him.
18
CLEM BOYLE AND Jazz Sinclair had been friends since primary school. Boyle had been a tough kid even then, but then, he’d had to be. He was the youngest of four brothers, each one of them desperate to emulate their father. Colin Boyle was a pal of Norrie Kennedy. They’d been brought up together in Blackhill and together they had kicked, punched and slashed their way through their teenage years and into early manhood. But Colin didn’t have the ambition or the cunning of his childhood mate, so while Norrie climbed the greasy pole of criminal achievement, Colin had to be content with hanging around near the bottom rung catching what rewards slid his way. Norrie never forgot his old pal, though, and made sure he was involved in whatever jobs called for his particular talents. Those talents included the ability to administer pain and a willingness to use a firearm – talents that stood Colin Boyle in good stead as a blagger. There was always room for a young guy with a shotgun in his hand and the ruthlessness to fire it. Boyle senior was one of four masked men who knocked over a British Linen Bank in Anniesland in 1966, making off with £65,000 in cash. They crippled an old man who tried to stop them, blasting his legs then prising the one pound note out of his hand that he had intended to lodge in his savings account. Colin had pulled the trigger and he’d been known to say that the old bastard deserved it for getting in the way. Two years later, he blinded with ammonia a security guard who had refused to open the rear door of his van to let his guys relieve it of the payroll being delivered to a steelworks near Motherwell.
With the proceeds of these jobs, Colin bought a comfortable semi-detached in Baillieston and raised a family with his wife Mira, a red-headed, freckled Irish lass with a temper to match her colouring. Colin loved all his sons, but it was the youngest, Clement, that he doted on. The other three boys were aware of this and never missed a chance to torment the lad, for he had inherited his mother’s red hair and freckles, which was a constant source of humour for his siblings. They loved to make fun of his name – he was named after his great-grandfather – and so he came to hate anyone who dared use it, preferring to go by just his surname. As he grew older the freckles faded and the hair colour darkened and he developed into a good-looking enough young man. But even then, his brothers took endless delight in ribbing him.
Colin Boyle died in 1975. He was kicked to death by Danny McCall.
It didn’t matter to Clem Boyle that by all accounts it had begun as a fair fight and, in fact, his father had started it. All that mattered to him was that Danny McCall beat his father to the ground and then proceeded to kick his head in. Colin Boyle lay in a coma for six weeks before he finally passed away in a bare room in the Royal Infirmary, his wife at his bedside, holding his hand. Only Clem and Gerry, the oldest son, were present at the funeral with their mother. One brother was in Peterhead Prison f
or murder and the other doing time in Wormwood Scrubs for a bank robbery in Putney. At the graveside, Boyle gripped his father’s signet ring in his hand, his only tangible link to him, and told his brother, ‘One day, I’m gonnae get Danny McCall and I’m gonnae do him. He’s gonnae pay for what he did.’
The young Boyle never got the chance; two years later, Danny murdered his wife and vanished. But Davie McCall was still very much in evidence.
Colin Boyle had been a criminal and a vicious one at that, but Clem Boyle had at least grown up with two loving parents. Jazz Sinclair had no such luxury. His father had deserted his mother when he was three years old, and from then she had gone through a number of men. The young boy lay in his room at night being serenaded from the next room by the throaty groans of the men as they climaxed. He became used to the many rows she had with her boyfriends, and the occasional slap as one or other resorted to violence to make their point. He had no brothers or sisters, no real friends, no friendly aunts or uncles with whom to take refuge. There was just him and his mother and the men she insisted he call ‘uncle’.
His given name was James, but he had taken to signing himself as Jazz by the time he reached primary school. Clem Boyle, who was placed beside him on the first day, saw him scribble his name on a piece of paper that was being passed round the children.
‘That’s a funny name,’ said the young Boyle.
‘It’s short for James,’ said the young Sinclair. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Boyle.’
‘Boyle what?’
‘Just Boyle,’ he said, holding out his hand. Jazz looked at the hand then eventually shook it. From that moment on, they were pals, and Jazz was grateful for it.
Over the years, Sinclair learned how to handle himself well enough, but he never sought out confrontation. Boyle was different – he revelled in a fight. Sinclair avoided trouble if he could, but being friends with Boyle so often brought the need to face up to it. Sometimes, though, he wondered if his friendship with the red-haired firebrand was healthy. Boyle had never lifted a finger against Jazz, but there was a side to his pal that scared him. Jazz often thought about the night Boyle had stuck his knife up some lad’s arse. He’d stood by as Boyle hauled the boy’s pants down and rammed the blade up there. He didn’t know why Boyle felt the need to do it and he’d never had the nerve to ask him about it. It was just something Clem had done because his blood was up. But it had scared the hell out of Jazz and sometimes he woke up hearing the boy’s screams and seeing Boyle’s face as he did it, his eyes dead and cold and distant.
Then there was the murder of Barney Cable. Sinclair had gone along with it because, to be honest, none of it seemed real. The preparation for the ambush had seemed like they were talking about a film or something. But when he and Boyle had burst out the back of that van, he’d suddenly realised that it was all for real and he’d hit the ground as soon as the bullets began to fly. He’d cowered there, praying he wouldn’t get hit, while Boyle had got to one knee and taken aim at Cable’s back as he’d climbed the fence. Even firing the shotgun had been a mistake – his finger twitched as he leaped from the van and landed badly on the hard concrete, jarring his injuries from the night before. It had been pure luck that the double rounds had smashed the car’s windscreen. But Boyle seemed to be in his element.
Sinclair was ashamed that he hadn’t been more assertive that day and he vowed that if he ever got the chance to make up for it, he would. That’s why, that Wednesday night, he went with him to follow McCall. He knew Boyle had a beef with him, knew it was something to do with their dads, but he never asked for details. The fact that they’d set their sights on that blonde burd in the pub and she’d been taken away from them by Davie McCall added another layer of resentment.
McCall had no idea that he was being shadowed that night, Sinclair knew that. They had followed him all the way from Sword Street, where he took a taxi into the city centre and the Dial Inn, a pub across West Regent Street from the Odeon Cinema. They parked their car and watched as McCall waited outside the pub. The picture house loomed like a giant warehouse to their left and McCall stood on the right hand side of the road, glancing occasionally around him. It was another warm spring evening and McCall was wearing a blue denim jacket, blue jeans and a white shirt. His hair was combed neatly and he looked clean and crisp. Boyle noted with satisfaction that he still favoured his right side, limping ever so slightly as he paced back and forward. McCall was nervous, which was a sight neither of them had seen before.
Jazz commented, ‘He’s kinda jumpy the night, is he no?’
Boyle nodded then seemingly realised why McCall seemed so skittish. ‘I’ll bet he’s meetin a lassie, that’s why!’
Jazz frowned. ‘You think it’s her frae Saturday night, like?’
‘Well, it’s no any of the hairies from up our way, no meetin here.’
Jazz’s frown deepened. He had really fancied her and now McCall was getting in there. ‘Bastard!’
Boyle dug his elbow into his pal and nodded towards Renfield Street. Sure enough, the girl was walking towards McCall. If anything she looked even better in the daylight than she had in the smoke-filled gloom of the pub. She was wearing a dark, pin-striped trouser suit that accentuated her curves. Her long blonde hair tumbled down around the collar of a white blouse.
‘What the fuck does she see in a scroat like Davie McCall?’ Jazz wondered.
Boyle remained silent. McCall sticking his nose into their business that night was one thing, but seeing the cow afterwards was just rubbing their faces in it. Even more than before, Clem Boyle hated Davie McCall.
* * *
As soon as he saw Audrey, McCall felt a smile break out and something catch in his chest. When she smiled, he felt a curious warmth spread through him. He didn’t know what that was either.
‘I wasn’t sure you would actually come,’ he said when they were settled in the downstairs bar, both with a soft drink in front of them. She was driving, Davie never drank. The barman had given a short, disgusted shrug when he ordered. Someone had fed the jukebox and when Davie carried the drinks to their table Madness were singing My Girl.
She laughed. ‘Why wouldn’t I come?’
McCall shrugged. ‘Well, we met in kinda strange circumstances.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said, sipping her fresh orange and soda, her eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass. She put the glass on the table top again. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d come either.’
McCall said nothing, but his hand turned the glass slowly round on the table.
‘I’ve heard some things about you, Davie McCall,’ she said, and he nodded slowly. He was not surprised. Someone in the paper was bound to have heard of him or his father.
‘Some of it might even be true,’ he said.
‘But you helped me the other night, and that means something.’
‘And is that the only reason you’re here? Because you feel you owe me?’
She thought about this and sipped her drink again. She didn’t answer until she had carefully laid the glass down again, as if she was afraid of breaking it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m here because I want to be.’
McCall nodded and said, ‘Good.’
* * *
Boyle had been watching the door of the Dial Inn for 30 minutes when something penetrated his concentration and he glanced at the car radio.
‘What the fuck’s this we’re listening to?’
Sinclair took the cigarette from his mouth and said, ‘Radio Clyde.’
Boyle screwed up his face and snarled, ‘I know that, for fuck’s sake. What the fuck’s the song?’
‘It’s Keith Michell.’
‘Who the fuck’s Keith Michell?’
‘The actor bloke – played that fat king on the telly. He’s singing Captain Beaky.’
Boyle said flatly, ‘Captain Beaky.’
‘Aye, he’s a pigeon, or something…’
‘Switch it the fuck off. I�
��m no sitting listening to a song about a fuckin bird.’
Sinclair did as he was told. ‘It was number one,’ he said in his defence, as if it was his fault that it was on the radio station’s playlist.
‘I don’t fuckin care if it went fuckin platinum, it’s shite,’ said Boyle, turning his attention back to the pub door. ‘Fuckin ‘Captain Beaky’…’
The sat in silence for a few minutes until Davie and the girl emerged and crossed the street towards the Odeon box office on the corner of Renfield Street and West Regent Street.
‘They’re going to the pictures,’ said Jazz.
‘Looks like it.’
‘We gonnae wait here till they come out?’
Boyle thought about it. ‘Naw. We could miss them, so there’s no point. I just wanted to see where the fucker was going, that’s all, and who he was meeting. We’ll let him have his date wi that bitch for now.’
Boyle started the car and glanced into the wing mirror before pulling out and heading south towards Castlemilk.
19
JOHNNY JONES WAS alone in his flat watching Coronation Street when Bannatyne and Donovan paid him a visit. He was an avid fan of the soap, having caught the bug from his wife who had followed it from its earliest days. They had watched it together, right up to when the cancer took her, and now that she was gone he kept up the tradition, her framed picture facing the telly. That way he could at least pretend, if only for half an hour a couple of times a week, that she was still with him. That was why he made sure he was alone whenever the show aired.
Blood City Page 13