Blood City

by Douglas Skelton

  So when the doorbell rang during the commercial break, he felt a flash of irritation burn through him. He contemplated ignoring it, but whoever was out there was insistent and seemed to be leaning on the buzzer. Jones sighed angrily, pulled himself out of the armchair and walked quickly down the hallway, intending to send whoever it was away with a flea in their ear. He jerked open the door, a snarl freezing when he saw who it was. Bannatyne he knew, but the younger copper was new to him.

  ‘Johnny,’ said Bannatyne, a big smile on his face, ‘we need a word.’

  ‘It’s no convenient the now,’ said Jones.

  Bannatyne’s smile broadened and in that instant Jones knew the cop was aware of his Coronation Street tradition and had chosen the time specifically to find him at home and alone.

  ‘We’ll not take long,’ Bannatyne said, brushing past him and heading down the hallway towards the living room. As he walked he said over his shoulder, ‘This is DC Donovan, one of my team. Frank, this is Johnny Jones.’

  Donovan nodded as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, but Jones barely glanced at him. Instead, he moved swiftly after Bannatyne. ‘Hey, you cannae just walk in here.’

  Bannatyne stood in the centre of the living room sporting an exaggerated puzzled expression. ‘We can if you invited us in.’

  ‘But I never invited you in.’

  ‘Could’ve sworn you invited us in. Did you hear Mister Jones invite us in, DC Donovan?’

  ‘Distinctly heard him say, “Come in, lads”,’ said Donovan.

  Bannatyne smiled back at Jones. ‘There you are. You need to do something about your short-term memory, Johnny old son.’

  Jones sighed, knowing better than to argue the point. ‘What you wantin? I’m busy.’

  Bannatyne glanced at the television in the corner. ‘Aye, well, Elsie Tanner will need to wait for now. I want to talk to you about Norrie Kennedy.’

  Jones sat down in his armchair. Bannatyne stood on the rug in front of the gas fire while Donovan lurked near the door. Jones knew Bannatyne was trying for a psychological advantage by staying on his feet, but he was an old hand at this and didn’t give a toss. ‘Don’t know anything about it, already told you.’

  ‘Yes, you did. But I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘Cannae help what you believe.’

  ‘I believe you had him killed.’

  Jones give him a dismissive smirk. ‘Told you, cannae help what you believe.’

  ‘You know the lad that got himself shot up Lennoxtown way?’

  ‘Aye, read about it. Terrible, so it was.’

  ‘We found a gun in the caravan that linked him to the Kennedy job.’

  ‘So what you talkin to me for? He obviously did Norrie.’

  ‘A source tells me you hired him to do it. And my source says that you had something to do with Barney Cable’s murder, too.’

  Jones began to laugh. ‘Give us a break, Bannatyne. Who the hell do you think I am? Al Capone? I don’t kill people. You know me, I’m a safeblower, a scallywag. A bit dodgy, aye, but I’m no fuckin gangster.’

  ‘I think you’re coming up in the world, Johnny. I think you’ve got ambition. My source tells me you’re up to something, something big, and Norrie wasn’t playing ball so you took him out of the game. I’ve got lads out hitting all the known armourers in the city and if we link that gun to you, we’ll come for you.’

  Jones shook his head. ‘I’m telling you, Bannatyne, it’s no down to me. Who’s your source anyhow?’

  Bannatyne smiled. ‘You don’t expect me to tell you that, surely, Johnny?’

  ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s giving you a bum steer. I wouldnae listen to him. Load a shite, that.’

  Bannatyne nodded and glanced at Donovan. ‘Maybe so, but you’re on a warning, Johnny. All this is getting out of hand. Six killings this month. Makes Strathclyde Police look bad and we don’t like that. Makes people wonder who actually runs these streets, you know? So let me make this perfectly clear...’ Bannatyne stepped closer to Jones and leaned over him. ‘We run these streets. Not you and your kind. The sooner you understand that, the better.’

  Jones stared back steadily at the detective, the corners of his mouth tugging down appreciatively. ‘Nice speech, Bannatyne, wee bit rough, but with a wee polish you’ll be able to deliver it at the police college and get a standing ovation. But see, wi me? It means fuck all. I had nothing to do with Norrie Kennedy’s murder, nothing to do with those lads up in Lennoxtown, nothing to do with Barney Cable. You want to pin them all on me, go ahead and get the proof. But here’s the thing – you’ll need to fit me up for it cos, and I think I’ll get a t-shirt printed up wi this on it, I had fuck all to do with any of it. Now, if you’re finished threatenin me, I want to get back to my programme.’

  Jones squinted past Bannatyne to focus on the screen. The detective straightened and stepped out of his way, jerking his head towards Donovan, who nodded and stepped into the hallway. Bannatyne listened for the front door opening and then he leaned back in to Jones.

  ‘Joe the Tailor sends his regards, Johnny,’ he said quietly.

  He left Johnny watching the final few minutes of the Street. Jones didn’t take much of it in, though, because his anger had begun to rise.

  * * *

  When Boyle and Sinclair arrived at Jones’ flat they found him in the armchair where Bannatyne and Donovan had left him. He was staring at the television screen, but they could tell by his expression that he wasn’t really watching it. The young men knew that something had happened and they stood in the centre of the room without saying a word, waiting for him to acknowledge their presence. After a couple of minutes Sinclair glanced at Boyle and raised his eyebrows, wondering if they should say something. Boyle shook his head and motioned his pal to sit on the settee. Sinclair did as he was told and Boyle took up position on the arm of the second armchair. Jones was yet to move or even look at them. He simply stared at the screen.

  Finally, he said quietly, ‘Had a visit from that fucker Bannatyne.’

  Sinclair felt fear flicker in his stomach. ‘What’d he want?’

  ‘Says I had something to do with the Norrie Kennedy thing, the three lads up in Lennoxtown and Barney Cable…’

  At the mention of Barney Cable, Sinclair felt his fear grow into full-blown panic. He glanced fearfully at Boyle, but his friend appeared unconcerned.

  ‘Seems to think I’m some kinda one-man Murder Incorporated,’ Jones went on. ‘And I’ll tell you something else – someone’s been filling his heid wi these lies.’

  Sinclair swallowed and asked, ‘Who?’

  Jones’ next words came out in a snarl. ‘That fuckin wee Jew boy Joe fuckin Klein, that’s who.’

  Boyle spoke in a steady, clear voice. ‘So what do we do now?’

  Jones’ eyes flicked towards Boyle. ‘He’s stepped over the line. We’re gonnae fuckin put one in his heid.’

  20

  WHAT DAVIE REMEMBERED most about life with Danny McCall was the drunken rage and the violence, but even that was mostly a blur, fragments of memory jumbled together to make a disjointed whole. The only thing that was vivid in his mind was the terrible night when Danny McCall had finally crossed the line from wife beater to murderer.

  Davie didn’t know why his father had come home to their tenement flat in Oatlands in such a rage that night. He was, of course, drunk. It was a stormy night and the rain hurled against the windows of the three-room flat alongside a strong wind, but the living room-cum-kitchen was warm and cosy thanks to a raging coal fire in the grate. Davie was watching a western with Gary Cooper and Burt Lancaster and the first thing Danny McCall said when he came in was an order to ‘get that fuckin shite switched off.’ Davie was enjoying the movie, but he did as he was told, for he knew better than to answer back or argue the point. Danny McCall threw himself into an old, worn armchair and glared at his wife, who was standing in the corner ironing clothes lifted from a plastic basket at her feet. ‘You gonnae m
ake me somethin to eat, or what?’

  Davie’s mother sighed and laid the iron down on the edge of the ironing table. ‘We’ve got some gammon in the fridge.’

  Danny McCall’s eyes turned cold. ‘Gammon? That all you gonnae offer me? Gammon?’

  ‘I never got to the butcher’s the day.’

  ‘How no? You too busy or what? You got such a busy fuckin day on your hands that you couldnae get out and buy your man some decent grub? You got some sort of business empire to run or something? Eh?’

  He was on his feet now and Davie saw the fingers of each hand tightening into a fist. The young man knew what was coming next. ‘I’ll run down the chippie for you, da,’ he offered, hoping to distract his father. ‘Get you a fish supper, how’s that?’

  But Danny McCall didn’t even look in his direction. ‘Don’t want a fish supper. I want there to be something in my house ready for me when I get home. A chop, or a steak maybe – something nice and tasty. But no, my dear wife’s been too busy to see to my needs. So what I want to know is, what the fuck’s she been doin wi her time? Eh? Tell me that.’

  Mary McCall shook her head and leaned on top of the ironing table. ‘Danny,’ she said, her voice weary, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

  Danny frowned. ‘Do what?’

  ‘This!’ said Mary. ‘You, your anger, your drinking. I can’t do it anymore, Danny. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Really?’ There was an exaggerated look of surprise on his face. ‘So tell me, my dear – what are you going to do about it?’

  Mary paused and Davie saw the colour draining from her face. Later, when he thought about it, he became certain that he saw a look of determination harden her gaze, as if the need to challenge her husband had been building for years. Joe told him that when he made inquiries himself, he discovered that Mary had confided in a neighbour that it was only concern for her son that had kept her tongue still. She knew she should have left her man long before but she hadn’t, partly out of the hope that the old Danny – the one she had loved and married – would return. But that night she knew that the old Danny McCall was long gone and she couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to do something.

  ‘We’re going to leave,’ she said quietly. ‘Me and Davie. We’re going.’

  ‘The fuck you are,’ said Danny, stepping forward, fist balled and ready, but he stopped when his wife surprised him by snatching up the hot iron, the closest thing to her, and held it in front of her like a shield.

  ‘No, Danny,’ she said, her teeth gritted, eyes slitted in a determined squint. ‘Not again. You take one more step and God help me. I’ll brain you with this.’

  Danny McCall was at a loss for words. He looked from his wife’s face to the iron in her hand and then to their son, who was equally as stunned. He shook his head almost sadly and stepped back to the open fireplace. He stared at the flames for a moment or two then stooped and picked up the heavy metal poker. It was long and pointed and had a sharp hook jutting out near the end.

  ‘Okay, darling,’ he said, ‘you want to play, let’s play…’

  Davie had never seen his father move so fast. He launched himself across the room, knocking the iron out of Mary’s hand with the poker while his left slapped her across the face. She cried out and slumped back against the wall. Danny raised the poker again to bring it down on her head. Davie was at his father’s side before he knew what he was doing, reaching out to grip his arm. But even with a drink in him the older McCall was too fast, lashing out with a back-handed blow then whirling and pushing the boy across the room until his back was against the wall. He jerked his knee upwards into his son’s groin and Davie felt agony surge through his body. He began to slump as Danny, still using his left hand, clubbed him to the floor. Davie tried to curl into a ball but his father kicked his legs back again and stood over him. Then he raised the poker above his head. Davie looked up, tears streaming down his face as much from the anger and frustration at not being able to do anything as it was from the pain. He looked into his father’s eyes, blue like his own, and saw nothing there that he recognised. The father’s face was expressionless as he looked down at his son. There was no rage, there was nothing. Something dark and violent had taken over. For a fleeting second Davie sensed that Danny McCall was somewhere else and that this creature with the poker poised above his head was a demon that existed only to cause pain.

  Then Danny McCall brought the heavy metal poker slicing down.

  The jagged agony shooting up Davie’s right arm was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was then superseded by the second and third. His father seemed to sense that, for he stopped his fourth blow in mid-swing and stared down at his son for a second. Through his pain, Davie saw something seep back into Danny’s eyes, a warmth that melted the ice. The older McCall looked at the weapon in his hands and then at his son, opening his mouth to say something. But no words came. Then, mercifully, Danny slumped off to the side with a grunt, and Mary McCall was standing there, iron in hand, the power cord dangling free.

  A great weight held Davie down, and all he could do was watch as his mother moved closer to his father, who was still shaking his head groggily. Danny’s hand went up to his wound and came away with blood. He looked at it in a puzzled manner and then his attention returned to his wife as she swung the iron once more. This time Danny was ready for it. He ducked under her arm, stepped in and punched her in the stomach. It was a deep blow and air burst from her throat in a gasp as she doubled over, the iron slipping from her hand. Danny grabbed her by the hair and swung her across the room, sending her tumbling over a wooden chair that was partially pulled out from the small kitchen table. She rolled across the floor, colliding with the tall standard lamp that was the room’s only electric light. It swayed then toppled, and the bulb exploded with a pop. Now the room was lit only by the glow of the fire, a strange, unearthly light that sent shifting shadows dancing on the wall. Danny kicked her head. Davie heard her groan again and saw her hands jerk up to her face. Danny McCall kicked her again and her head snapped to the side and the hands fell away, although Davie could see she was still moving, her legs jerking as if she was trying to get up. Danny stepped over her until he was straddling her, and raised the poker once more.

  ‘Dad – don’t,’ said Davie, but his voice was weak. ‘Dad – please don’t,’ he said, a bit louder now. Danny McCall hesitated, the poker above his head. He looked over at his son and Davie thought just for a second that he saw something human there. But as the son stared into the father’s eyes for the final time, that flicker of humanity guttered and died.

  ‘Dad – please…’ pleaded Davie, but his father was no longer there and he knew it. Danny returned his icy gaze to his wife and brought the poker arcing down. As Davie finally tumbled into unconsciousness, he knew that final image would be etched in his memory for good; his father, standing over the body of his mother, lit by the red glow of the firelight and the sound of rain battering against the windows punctuated by the thud of hard metal on soft flesh.

  * * *

  Davie thought about that hellish night and of what his father had become as he walked the east end streets, Abe at his heels. His deepest fear was always that whatever lived inside Danny McCall lived within him, too. He justified to himself that the people he hurt deserved it, but he knew that was not strictly true. It was one reason why – Joe and Rab apart – he did not forge close friendships.

  But Audrey was different.

  Something about her had gripped him. He didn’t know what he was feeling or why he was feeling it, but for the first time he didn’t feel compelled to push her away. He had sat through the film watching Dustin Hoffman trying to bring up his young son without the aid of a self-centred Meryl Streep and had enjoyed it, even if it wasn’t exactly to his taste. He had enjoyed it because Audrey sat beside him, although he was tense and nervous and afraid that their arms would touch on the shared rest between them. Then, about halfway through, she moved, snaking her arm though
his to take his hand in hers, and he felt all the tension ebb away at the touch of her fingers, cool and smooth, and they sat for the rest of the film just holding each other’s hands.

  Later, as he walked her to the car park where she had left her car, he began to grow nervous again. She was talking about the film, saying how much she hated Streep’s character, but he was thinking ahead. He desperately wanted to kiss her but he didn’t know how to go about it, even though they walked hand-in-hand through the city centre streets. She had taken his hand again, so that meant something, he told himself. In the end, she took the first step. They had reached her car and went though the clichéd ritual of the first date. She told him she’d had a good time and he said they would have to do it again, and of course she agreed. She gave him a small smile then stepped closer, her hands resting gently on his waist as she leaned forward and kissed him. For a brief second Davie didn’t know what to do, but instinct kicked in and his hands moved under her jacket and round her body, experiencing pleasure at the feel of her firm skin under her blouse. Her lips were cool and soft and she pulled him closer as they stood there for a short time. Then they parted and she smiled again as she reached up to wipe away a trace of lipstick from his mouth.

  ‘If you don’t phone me, I’ll phone you,’ she said, then climbed into her car and drove away, giving him a small wave through the window as she did so.

  It took Davie a full minute to realise he was grinning like a fool.

  21

  BARNEY CABLE’S FUNERAL should have taken place sooner than it did but his body, and that of Peter Morton, were held back by the police for ‘investigative purposes’. They never explained what those ‘investigative purposes’ were – police never like to explain anything – but finally, after two weeks, they agreed to release the corpses for burial.

  The night before the belated funeral, Davie sat with Joe in his study, staring at a chess board made up of ornate Chinese figures. Joe had taught Davie the basic moves years before, but the intricacies of the game still eluded him. His mind couldn’t quite process the stratagems and feints that were required to wage this game of war. He was a straightforward move-and-take player while Joe often sideswiped him by showing a willingness to sacrifice a valuable piece in order to gain an advantage a few moves down the line. Still, though, Joe played Davie as often as possible in the hope that the young man might soak in the lessons of life that were taught on the black and white squares. He had never told Davie, but Danny McCall had been a superb player, more than a match for Joe. They had passed many an evening in this room, pitting their wits against each other. The older McCall was a ruthless player and the audacity of many of his moves often left Joe floundering.