He can’t get back to sleep. Perhaps it’s age. Perhaps, as he’s got a little older, he’s lost the fearlessness he used to have. He’s still cold inside. He can still switch off his emotions when he’s on a job. He can still overcome any emotional consequences of what he does. It’s been said before, though. You get a little older, you realize that time is against you. If you want to have all the other good things in life – the things that the job gets in the way of – then you’re going to have to hurry up about it. That could be what it is. You get tied down to Jamieson and the job will get in the way more than ever. You get targeted by Davidson, and all those things that have started to feel more important lately will never be yours.
Yep, he does need that drink after all. He’s too awake now anyway. Calum pulls back the quilt. He wears boxer shorts and a T-shirt to bed, in case you’re wondering. You’re probably not. He sits on the edge of the bed for a couple of minutes. Thinking about the reality of his life. If he had a job to do, how could he hide it from a wife? How could he hide this from a wife? The worry. The fallout from a job. Even when the job’s done well, you still have consequences. You’re up in the middle of the night, because you can’t sleep. She would notice that. You would have to try to explain it away. This job and a normal life are not compatible. It’s a horrible reality, but it’s true. This job is so abnormal, you have to sacrifice the things other people take for granted to do it.
He’s on his feet, moving to the bedroom door. He stops and looks back at the digital clock at his bedside. Ten past two in the morning. He seems to spend a lot of his life up and about at these hours. Working in the darkness. Would you have it any other way? Admit it, you love the job. He smiles a little to himself. The freedom to live like this. The ability to do what you please. To be reasonably well paid for a job you find easy. To enjoy the rush. Okay, there are sacrifices, but there’s nothing that says they have to be permanent. You do this for a few more years. You find a way out. If that’s possible. Then you live a more conventional life. When you have enough money to not have to be truly conventional. To not have a nine-to-five. To be able to move about at whatever hour you choose.
He’s a few feet into the kitchen when he catches a glimpse. It’s dark, but his eyes are used to it, and movement can’t be hidden, not unless it’s pitch-black. There’s a moment. It’s a split second when you know the danger. You understand immediately what it is, and how much trouble you’re in. It’s a human instinct. It doesn’t come from working in the business. Everyone has that instinct; it’s just that if you’re in the business, then you get to use it more often. Calum has used it before. He knows. He can tell that he’s in a world of trouble, and that it’s most likely too late to do anything about it. You understand the reality. But you still fight. That’s another human instinct. The need to survive. The will to fight.
It’s a large figure that moves towards him. The immediate thought is Davidson. He’s a big figure. So Young and Jamieson did nothing about him. Charming! Now there’s really no point. One advantage. One little advantage. Calum’s eyes are much more accustomed to the darkness than Davidson’s. The bigger man is moving towards him, raising a hand. Raising it higher than expected. Not a gun then. A knife. Going for a silent kill. Break in, kill him in his bed. Body isn’t found until the following day. Davidson long gone. It’s a nice attempt. One of those little quirks of fate that Calum happened to wake up when he did. Or did Davidson forcing the lock wake him? We’ll never know.
Calum’s raising a hand. Get your feet right. Take a good position to try to fight back. Instinct says let him have the first swing. He’s bigger than you. He’s got the knife. You have nothing. React to his first move. Then go for the knife. The dark figure makes a swing of the knife. It’s not intended to kill. It’s a slash, intended to force Calum into a more defensive position. Into a position that won’t allow a counterattack. Now it’s a test of courage. How much can you take? Stand your ground. Let him slash your arms. Let him injure you. The key is staying alive. You won’t come out of this unscathed – throw that dream away. This is a fight for survival. Calum holds his ground. One arm raised. On his toes, ready to strike back. The large figure swings the knife again; it slashes across Calum’s forearm. It snags. It feels like it’s scratched through to the bone. There’s a sharp pain. Don’t let that slow you down. Now is the time to react.
A fraction’s delay. That’s the opening. Lunge forward. Head-first. The top of his skull crashing into the large figure’s lower jaw. A stifled growl of pain. A backward step. An opening. Make a grab for the knife. Doesn’t matter if you cut your hand on the blade; the priority is staying alive. A grip of something. Pulling and pushing. A few seconds when all seems lost in the darkness. Are you winning the fight or aren’t you? What’s the other guy doing? Seconds of mystery. Seconds of nothing. The large figure twists his body, trying to pull away. Something comes loose. Light-headed. Blood running onto your hands. You want to fall to your knees. You push forward, trying to take advantage. A knife into flesh. It slides in so easily. No resistance. A twist. The fight is over.
EPILOGUE
Just getting his trousers on is difficult. His hip is stiff, but it’s getting better. Not ready for a big excursion yet, according to the docs, but getting there. It’s going to have an excursion, though, like it or not. This is something Frank has to do. He has the trousers on each leg and he’s getting to his feet. Boy, is he out of shape. Not sure sitting on his arse in Spain is going to help that, but that’s where he’s going next week. The journey will be a test. Been more than a month since the surgery. Spent the first couple of weeks with his leg up on a stool. Tedious and embarrassing. An active man with a young spirit shouldn’t be spending his days in that position. Fortunately the only people that matter who saw him like that were Peter Jamieson and Calum MacLean. Peter knew what to expect, didn’t mind. And Calum. Well, poor Calum.
He’s got his trousers up, thank God. Tucking his shirt in and closing his trousers. Belt. Where’s that belt? Found it. Putting it on. Tie. Got that too. Now he just needs his coat. This isn’t going to be a pleasant start to the day. These things are always sad and awkward. Frank’s consumed by the knowledge that it could so easily be him. Right now, though, he’s feeling pretty good. He has his car keys in his hand. First time since he had his hip replaced that he’s driving. A little sooner than was advised, but so what – he feels good. The more he thinks about it, the better he feels. He’s actually smiling as he goes out the front door and down the path. Into the car. Struggling just a little to get his leg to bend into position. Stiff, but not painful. That’s progress. The pain has gone; now he just has to build up his strength.
Frank drives like an old man. Always has. Drives like a man who knows how not to draw attention to himself. Forty years’ experience turns early lessons into long-standing habit. He couldn’t drive any other way now. Eternally careful. He knows the streets, knows the city. It’s always changing, but he’s always learning. Nearly there, not sure what to expect. He’s swearing under his breath as he pulls up at the side of the road. He has the correct address. Should’ve known it would be awkward. A visit like this was always going to be as unpleasant as sod’s law could make it. It’s a second-floor flat, and what’s the bet there’s no lift? Bit of a struggle to get his weight up and out of the car in one movement. Not sore, though, that’s what’s keeping his spirits up. Nuisance value he can deal with.
No buzzer on the front door. No sort of security at all. Frank’s in through the door and glaring at the stairs. No lift, of course. With a sigh he’s starting the climb. Up to the first floor. Puffing a little, but not in pain. Up to the second floor. The hip’s stiff and heavy, but that might not be a bad thing. Not with the trip that’s coming up. Sitting on a plane, getting through airports. Good to exercise it in advance, put a little pressure on it. It’s not hard to find the flat he’s looking for. It’s a small corridor, gloomy, with three doors. He’s looking for number eight. Knocking on the
door. There’s a peephole, and he’s making a point of standing right in front of it. Waiting twenty seconds and the door is opening.
Calum looks a mess. His left hand is heavily bandaged; he looks pale and thinner than before. He’s nodding a wary hello to Frank.
‘Good to see you, Calum,’ Frank’s saying. Friendly. Genuine. ‘Can I come in?’
Calum’s leading him along a short corridor to the living room, offering him a seat. ‘Do you want a higher chair from the kitchen?’ Calum’s asking him. He’s looking at the hip, but not mentioning it. Looking at the wrong hip, as it happens, but Frank’s not going to point that out.
‘That would help.’ The old man’s smiling.
Calum’s disappeared into the kitchen and come back with a chair. Playing the good host, but only playing. They both know he’s buying time. Considering this unexpected visit. Calum’s thinking about the last time he saw Frank. Then it was Calum making the visit. It was business, dressed as social. This will be the same.
There’s an unpleasant atmosphere already. Not threatening, but tense. As soon as Jamieson suggested this meeting, Frank knew it would be horrible. Calum’s too smart for this. Plenty of morons you could visit, and they wouldn’t get it. They wouldn’t know that the boss had sent you to lean on them. Calum’s not one of those morons. As soon as he saw Frank through the peephole, he’d have known. Now he’ll be on high alert. Listening for Jamieson’s voice in Frank’s words. He’s sitting opposite Frank. Looking at him. Trying to look friendly, and failing. He looks challenging. Like he’s daring Frank to speak. Daring him to be anything other than a puppet for the boss. Frank’s clearing his throat.
‘Look at us, huh? Pair of wrecks. The hand. I’m hearing it was a bad one.’
Calum’s nodding, raising his left hand a little. ‘This one was. The other hand wasn’t so bad. The cut on the arm wasn’t deep, either. It’ll heal, just needs a little time. Could’ve been a lot worse.’
Frank knows all about the diagnoses. Jamieson told him everything. Told him about Jamieson’s own doctor looking after Calum. Stitching him up, getting him healed and back to work. The doctor’s suggested that Calum isn’t following the physio he was given. Hinting that he’s not rushing back to health. The doc’s a pill-popper. Unemployed, officially. Signed off sick from his practice a couple of years ago. Gets money and drugs from Jamieson for his skills now. Frank’s not a fan. They couldn’t take Calum to a hospital, though – that would have put him on the radar. Young man turns up with stab wounds to both hands and his right arm. Not hard to guess who the hospital get on the phone to. There would have been a cop at his bedside within the hour. Within five minutes, if the docs realized some of the blood wasn’t Calum’s. Frank sat and listened to Jamieson voice his fears about Calum’s commitment. About him using the hand injuries to swing the lead. All Frank was thinking about was how the boy handled the job.
Admiration, in the most part. Jealousy, too. Frank picked Calum for the job. His recommendation. Eventually, his replacement. That’s how it’ll be. The bright young thing comes in and does well. He becomes the backup to the senior man. Time passes. Frank slows down. Calum earns the respect to become the lead man. Frank knows he’s sitting opposite the person who’s going to push him into the slow lane. But he knew that, when he picked the boy. No complaints. Maybe a little fear. A gunman wants to work until he drops, or until someone drops him. The bright young thing could push him onto the sidelines. Frank’s smiling, hiding his thoughts.
‘I heard how you handled Davidson,’ he’s saying. ‘You did brilliantly.’
Calum’s nodding, shrugging a little. So complacent.
He’s not so sure he did brilliantly. All he remembers is the blood and the fear. Trying to get to his feet. Davidson dead on the floor. The adrenalin rushing. Overwhelming everything. He knew he was in pain, but he wasn’t even sure where he’d been cut. Trying to clear his head. Took two minutes of standing in silence. Then he went to the phone. The blood making it hard to press the buttons. Called George. Told him to come round. There was work to do. George came. It was difficult, but they got rid of the body. Waves of tiredness. George doing all the manual work. The fear of being caught. The fear of passing out. George was terrific. They got rid of the body. George took Calum round to his own flat, then went to clean up Calum’s. Calum didn’t want to contact Jamieson. Not until all the dust had settled. George decided otherwise. He wanted help cleaning up. A professional job.
That was when the organization moved into action. Someone was sent round to deep-clean Calum’s flat. A safe house was found for him. A doctor was sent round to look at his wounds. All the things he couldn’t organize for himself. The loving arms of the organization wrapping tightly around him. Protecting him. Holding him firmly in place. Doing it all silently. Making a show of how much they’re helping him. Never actually saying what he owes them in exchange. Didn’t need to be said. A nice safe house, then a tidy little flat for him to live in. The old flat emptied and cleaned. His wounds tended by the organization’s doctor. George coming round regularly with shopping. Making sure he has everything he needs. Look, they’re saying, look how we look after you. What would you do without us? Calum understands.
He understands why Frank is here. Here to put the pressure on. Here to make sure the Jamieson message gets across. One thing for a wrecked former doctor to deliver it, quite another for Frank. It means more coming from Frank. A man you respect. A man who matters.
‘All dressed up, huh?’ Calum’s saying with a smile, nodding at Frank.
Frank’s looking down at his formal attire. He’s of a generation that dresses for things. Doesn’t seem unusual to him. ‘I’m on my way to lunch with Peter. Have a chat about Spain. He has stuff for me – keys to the villa, and the like. Lay out a few ground rules. No wild parties, that sort of thing.’ Now they’ve brought Peter Jamieson into the conversation, and he’s going to hover over everything that’s said.
‘So you were just passing by,’ Calum’s saying with a knowing smile.
Frank can handle this any way he wants, it doesn’t matter. Calum’s already sussed it, and nothing Frank says will change that. Calum knows that Frank’s here to deliver a message. All Frank can do now is deliver.
‘How are you feeling about it?’ Frank’s asking. Sounding genuine.
‘About my injuries? Give them time, they’ll be fine. That’s what the doc says.’
‘Uh-huh. What about the job?’
‘What about it?’ Not making this easy. Why should he?
‘You happy with the way everything was handled? I have to say, I was impressed with how you handled it yourself. On the night. Getting rid of that shit Davidson was a service to the city. The way you handled the removal as well. Impressive. You happy with how everyone else handled it?’
This is it. If he’s happy with the job everyone else did, then he has nothing to complain about. If he has nothing to complain about, then he should hurry back to work.
‘Everyone seemed to handle it well enough,’ Calum’s saying. A bit of a shrug. ‘I’m not sure it was wise to get people so high up the chain involved so early, but . . . ’ he’s saying and trails off.
‘They’re looking after you, though,’ Frank’s saying. Not a question this time, an observation.
‘Yeah.’
Frank’s nodding. Sitting with his hands on his lap, looking uncomfortable. ‘They will look after you too. You’re a smart kid. You have talent. You’ve been able to keep all that talent to yourself and do well with it. Things change, though. Gets to a point where you need people looking after you. Only way to stay safe. That’s the gunman’s maturity,’ he’s saying with a smile. ‘You start out independent and determined to stay that way. The thought of working for an organization is horrible. You want your freedom. You end up the opposite. You’re in an organization, and you know that going freelance would kill you. Being tied to someone isn’t such a bad thing,’ he’s saying. ‘If you have the right people around you
, being in an organization is the smartest thing you can do.’
Frank’s gone now. Looked like he was struggling with his hip as he made his way down the stairs. Calum’s struggling with his hand. It’s why he didn’t offer a cup of tea or coffee. Even taking a piss is a struggle.
If he was freelance? He’d be a sitting duck. Easy target for anyone wanting rid of him. Wouldn’t be able to hide away like this. Would struggle for cash. Frank learned to love the organization. As good as admitted that he couldn’t survive without it these days. Maybe, in time, Calum will learn to love it. Maybe not.
Calum’s back sitting in the living room. Staring into space. All alone in a flat that doesn’t feel like home. Trying to stare into the future. Looking at the inevitable. He can’t run from Jamieson – too dangerous. Staying means more of this. Common sense says you stay and you suffer it. You do the jobs. They pile up on top of you, and one day you get caught out. Then it’s all over. That’s the inevitable. Unless . . .
Maybe a chance comes along. A chance to defy the inevitable. Then you just need the guts to take that chance.
If you enjoyed The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter
you’ll love
HOW A GUNMAN SAYS GOODBYE
the second gripping instalment in Malcolm Mackay’s Glasgow Trilogy
How does a gunman retire? Frank MacLeod was the best at what he does. Thoughtful. Efficient. Ruthless. But is he still the best?
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter (Glasgow Trilogy) Page 22