R.I.P Robbie Silva

by Tony Black

  R.I.P Robbie Silva

  a novella

  Tony Black

  Copyright information

  Published by Blasted Heath, 2012

  copyright © 2012 Tony Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Tony Black has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Photo by Kevin Mason

  Visit Tony Black at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-25-5

  Version 2-1-3

  Also by Tony Black

  THE STORM WITHOUT

  Still recovering from the harrowing case that ended his police career, Doug Michie returns to his boyhood home of Ayr on Scotland's wind-scarred west coast. He hopes to rebuild his shattered life, get over the recent failure of his marriage and shed his demons, but the years have changed the birthplace of the poet Robert Burns.

  When Doug meets an old school-days flame, Lyn, he feels his past may offer the salvation of a future. But Lyn's son has been accused of murder and she begs Doug to find the truth.

  Soon Doug is tangled in a complicated crimeweb of corrupt politicians, frightened journalists and a police force in cahoots with criminals. As he uncovers illicit smuggling activities at the town's port and falls firmly on the wrong side of eastern European ganglords, the problems he left behind in Ulster are now the least of his worries. Only Burns' philosophical musings offer Doug some shelter as he wanders the streets of Auld Ayr battling The Storm Without.

  The Storm Without is a 43,000-word novella, first serialised in the Ayrshire Post.

  Praise for The Storm Without

  "an elegiac noir for the memory of a place, delivered in a prose as bleakly beautiful as the setting." – The Guardian

  "This is the Great Scottish Novel, got it all and just a wee shade more... Classic." – Ken Bruen, author of Headstone

  "Highly entertaining, fast paced and tightly, almost sparingly, written." – Undiscovered Scotland

  "another masterclass in Tartan Noir" – Daily Record

  "a thrilling piece of crime writing" – Scottish Field

  "cracking stuff" – You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?

  Keep informed of new releases by signing up to the Blasted Heath newsletter. We'll even send you a free book by way of thanks!

  R.I.P Robbie Silva

  If I had to say when it started, when the shit really broke, I'd go for the day I met Gail. I was sitting in a drinker at the foot of Leith Walk tanning Tennent's – roughly one hour out my stretch – and retelling the morning's main event. Trust me, after nine months in the pound, a thing like this was an event.

  'So, I walks out the gates and goes into the first shop I sees, asks for a pack of smokes, I was gasping, like.' I got the nodding dog from Wellsy and Bandy Rab. It had been a while since I'd held court with the old crew – boys looked like they were right into it as well – I can feed a yarn with the best of them, known for it.

  'And the guy at the till, he's some fat fucking Jambo sitting on his arse with a gut spilling over the counter. Y'know the type, most exercise he gets is doing a couple of scratch-cards a day ...'

  Laughs. More nods. Bandy Rab shifted onto his other arse-cheek, leaned into Wellsy, making his pint shoogle in the glass; Wellsy gave him a wee frown that said cool the beans, man.

  'So, he gives me this look ...' I made the look; that's when I caught sight of the blonde with her eye on me. She was leaning on the bar, pushing out a belter of an arse in cut-down Levis, or was it hot-pants now I think of it? There was definitely a bit of a glossy pout about her lips anyway, I remember that, that and a fair rack as well. I've always been more of an arse man, but well, you notice a thing like that, don't you? She was with a couple of lads, an older bloke that looked a bit of a player and some gimp with a mullet and an AC/DC T-shirt.

  I splayed arms, made the gesture – funny how an audience will improve your performance – continued: 'Then he goes ... Back the way you came.'

  'Eh?' I said it the way I told him. 'And he's up out the seat, goes, I'm not serving you.'

  I felt the heat rising in my chest, the return of the red mist, as I retold the story – this guy had got my goat. Fucking sure he had.

  'So, I looks at him and he turns away, flags me off with the back of his hand like I'm some Calton Hill cock-washer or something.' I mean, I'm six-two and 15 stone. I'm solid too, all muscle, no jelly on me. I went inside this time with a 44-inch chest and bench-pressed it up to 46. Jed the Press they were calling me; no-one could fucking out-press me in there.

  I copied the Jambo's dismissive gesture for the boys – they shook heads, knew the score. I saw the blonde was still all eyes for me as well. Made me want to smile but you can't encourage them, makes you look too keen and that's the last thing you want, nothing'll blow your chances faster. A hoor of a business.

  I started up again: 'I don't serve your lot, he goes ... My lot, I says, and what the fuck would that be, mate?'

  I stood up at this point, fair getting into the swing of things, has to be done. It was a big deal to have anything to tell them; fuck all had happened in Saughton that's for sure and certain.

  'Now he's on his feet and fumbling about the counter, saying: Don't call me fucking mate, I'm not yer fucking mate, pal. He actually calls me pal. The fanny. Typical fucking Jambo – he's all right, he's all wrong. But then he arks right up, hoicks out this shooter, old fucking war heirloom ... and the cunt points it at me.'

  I hold my finger out in front of me like it's a gun and Wellsy and Bandy Rab get off the nodding dog patter and onto the Ren and Stimpy eyes, staring, just staring. It's a look that says and where the fuck's this going? Y'know, like they're not quite sure they aren't sitting with some serious radge that's gone and offed somebody in the last hour. No danger. I mean, I've no fear of doing another stretch, life on the out isn't that exciting at the best of times, but c'mon ...

  'I'm warning you, he goes, and I'm like in total shock, disbelief y'know ... I'm half-an-hour out the fucking pound and this cunt's pointing a shooter at me ... Holy fuck, I says, stroll the fuck on, mate ... but, he's a Jambo – a fucking fat one 'n' all ... even by Jambo standards – so the reactions can't be so fast, I'm thinking ... I swing my arm round and snatch the shooter out his mitt. He's staring at me now, got that glaiket look that says, just-how-the-fuck-did-that-happen and is-this-bloke-maybe-fucking-Robocop-or-something?'

  The lads lapped it up. Though maybe they were just so relieved that I hadn't offed this prick. Got laughter and back slaps. Wellsy near choked on a bit of swally that came up and out his throat. I watched them sink back in their chairs, wiping their eyes; Wellsy supped a bit of Cally Special to clear the pipes.

  That's when the blonde bit turned round fully and put her tits out, leaned back on the bar. Stop the lights, man, I was thinking ... she was giving me the diddy eye. Pure mad for it so she was. Then she caught me staring and a bit of a smile spread on her face, a kinda crooked smile – knew she had the hook in – there were bright white teeth shining out from behind her glossy lips. That's when the mullet-gimp grabbed her arm, tried to turn her round. The old boy was having none of it though, slapped the gimp down. The bold old dude looked a useful sort and the wee man stepped back, looked almost shrunken. I wondered had I seen this big grey-haired guy somewhere before – inside maybe? He had one of those time-done stares, but it was the bit of stuff I was more interested in. I cl
ocked a tattoo on her belly. A wee green clover, like the Tim badge or something, just above the belt-line of her hot-pants. I was thinking, Christ, no' a Pape lassie with her hand on her tuppence ... hoped she didn't have a beard like Danny McGrain's.

  'So what did you do then, Jed?' said Bandy Rab.

  'What do you think I did? ... Got my fucking smokes and got the fuck out of there. Kept the gun, like.' I lifted up my shirt and showed them the old Webley tucked into my denims. The handle was wooden, scratched all to buggery it was, sorta looked like I had a table leg stuffed down my keks ... I was thinking that can't be a good look but then the blonde bit seemed to straighten herself, pushed off the bar and started to walk over. She had one of those model walks, exaggeratedly crossing her legs one in front of the other at every step. Her deep brown, rounded eyes shone as she got closer, but it was the rack I was focused on ... it was like something you'd see on the front of Loaded.

  Could hardly believe my Donald Duck!

  Wellsy and Bandy Rab nudged each other under the table as she holed up in front of us.

  'I heard what you said about that guy,' she went.

  I played it cool. 'Oh, aye?'

  'Yeah ... I know him.'

  That threw me a bit, played a safe ball: 'That a fact?'

  She leaned over the table, widened those big eyes even further, but my own slipped down the V of her tank-top.

  There was more said, but whatever it was I paid so little attention that I couldn't tell you what ... except for one thing: her name was Gail.

  * * * *

  I'm not known for my good sense, that's a fact. But there was a time I can remember being quite together, we all were, Mam, Jody ... even the Old Boy, though that bastard went down pretty rapid. Down as far as you can go to be honest, in my books anyway.

  Jody might not have agreed, but Mam would have if she knew what I knew after she passed away; Jody was just too kind-hearted for her own good, that was her problem. I never had that option. I sometimes think, when you're dealt a shit hand it's all you can play. I mean, you can spend a year and a day weighing up different options, trying to persuade yourself out of the obvious, but you're only delaying the inevitable. You can't deny your nature, who and what you truly are. That's the way I see it anyway, always have. A hoor of a business.

  As Gail invited herself into our company, Wellsy and Bandy Rab took the hint – clever boys – and went for the early bath.

  'Want to go for a ride?' she said.

  I nearly ate my chips backwards.

  'Y'wha–?' Thought my luck was in for sure. Then she produced a chain with a car key on it and grinned all over me. I felt like a right tube.

  'What about your mates?' I said.

  'Who?'

  I nodded to the pair she'd just left standing at the bar. They looked away when they saw there was some attention on them.

  She laughed. 'That's my half-brother and my old man ...'

  'Keep you on a tight leash, do they?'

  She arked up a bit at that, turned tail and headed for the door. As she went she clocked me over her shoulder, nodded follow. I downed the last of my Tennent's (I know, I know – but I'll be fucked if I'm drinking that Hun piss McEwan's) and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  When I think about it now, I must have looked a wee bit too keen on the prospect ahead of me because Gail started to laugh as she went, her shoulders bobbing up and down so much that she lost her footing and staggered into a table ... funny creatures, women.

  The BMW started first time.

  Nice set of wheels. Always loved these Beemers, but I was thinking this was a hell of a lot of car for a girl of her age and station ... though I really hadn't a scoobie about her station at this stage. She looked all right, I mean dressed all right and all that, she could have been working in some office, one of the Standard Lifers or what have you, but this was the middle of the day. She was no dole mole that was for sure so she must have been collecting a wedge somewhere, somehow. There's a few of that sort in Edinburgh – strangers to a day's work – though mainly they're English students doing a masters in daytime telly and hand-shandies at mammy and daddy's expense. Chuggers, town's full of them.

  'Nice motor,' I said.

  'It's a fucking heap!' She flicked her hair back, those dark-blonde curls making waves over her shoulders. She didn't seem overly interested in anything I had to say; seemed like she was already decided on me without having sussed me out much at all. Or maybe she had; thing I found out about Gail later was, she liked her split decisions. I watched her turn the key in the ignition and then she went, 'I'm hungry, let's eat.'

  She took us to Maccy Dees on London Road. I felt like a lottery winner driving down the road in a flash Beemer with a fit bit. The fun factory seemed a long way away. The road that had led there was even further away, forgotten, wiped out. I wanted to be spotted by some of the old crew – Jamie Dees or Whitey or Fanny Bass – anyone that knew me, just to have them turn head and give them a wee bit of something to yak about in the pub later on. I'd have got a blast out of that back then; showing off. Boys are all about showing off.

  'What you want?' said Gail.

  I was a bit low on the green folding stuff, had been lifted with a wad of Jimmy Denners and forty Regal but came out with two-bob and a fag-coupon. Fucking screws. All thieving bastards, I tell you. If they're not introducing you to the slippery steps, they're rifling your pockets for snout and coin. Said, 'I'm all right, thanks.'

  'Not even a Coke?' she promptly produced a stack that would have settled a small nation's debts, said, 'Sure? ... It's on me.'

  I smiled, 'Maybe a Coke, then.'

  She ordered herself a Big Mac, sprung for the 'Go Large' option when asked. As she leaned over she exposed her lower back above her hot-pants ... how did she stay in shape and eat like that? Something wasn't right there ... was she for real? Was any of this?

  On the way out the gates of Saughton I was as flat as a tack: expecting a long stretch of sofa surfing, maybe hawking my arse for a labouring job on some new rabbit-hutch housing site in Midlothian or somewhere if I was lucky, but here I was in a flashy motor with this Gail bit and ... well, it was beyond the beyonds.

  We drove to Holyrood Park, pulled up next to the swan pond. Tourists were taking pictures, scores of them headed for Arthur's Seat in a long shaky ant-line. I shook my head. Some things never changed about Edinburgh; some things changed all the time ... like the Hibs managers. My mind wandered onto the current back-four; game these days was all about defence. A hoor of a business.

  Gail devoured the burger and fries, then set about washing it all down with the Coke. She touched her chin as a few droplets of Coke dribbled down. I could count the number of words I'd had out of her by this stage on my fingers and toes. I was waiting for some kind of a breakthrough, bit of proper chatter, y'know, a groundbreaker, but then she said, 'I think we should have a word with our friend ... '

  'Our friend?'

  She took the lid off the Coke cup, sucked the drips out of the straw, then took out an ice cube, said, 'Jambo prick that wouldn't serve you.'

  I looked at her. She was pouting, sucking back the ice cube.

  'He's had his ...'

  She let the ice thin a bit more, then swallowed. 'Nope, he's not.'

  I played along, lifted the top of my jacket, exposed the Webley's handle. 'I have his shooter.'

  Gail's eyes widened; they were dark pools, intense. She reached a hand over and took out the gun. I watched her hold it in her hand, play with it. It looked too heavy for her, lolling from side to side in her grip; but the power-trip seemed to make her happy. 'I have an idea,' she said.

  'Oh, aye.' I wasn't sure I liked the sound of this, but there was something about watching her pat the shooter off her St Tropez-tanned thighs that had me wondering how bad could things really be.

  'You just stick with me ... I'll show you a thing or two!' I didn't doubt it. She lifted the gun, kissed the stalk.

  Inside I lik
ed two things: watching Hibs hump Hearts; and the other, well, it was a more solitary affair ... Gail climbed over the gear-stick, popping another ice-cube in her mouth.

  'Mmh-hmh,' she said, passing the cube from her mouth to mine.

  'It's broad daylight,' I said.

  It didn't seem to bother her, not in the slightest.

  * * * *

  There was a Bon Jovi CD stuck in the Beemer's player.

  'Bon-fucking-Jovi?' I said.

  'It's my prick brother's – half-brother! One of Daddy's fuck-ups, anyway ... he's no taste in music, or anything else ... Daddy couldn't get the CD out the player. He lost the head every time he drove it after that ... so, that's why I got this car.'

  I double-blinked. 'Hang about ... never heard of garages, with mechanics, folk that fix these things?'

  The idea had her scoobied, seemed a stupid suggestion.

  'Daddy has heaps of cars ... he isn't bothered.'

  An old phrase hit me – man alive – said, 'Okay, whatever.' It fairly twisted my melon that someone would turn over a motor to their daughter because they couldn't be bothered having the fucking CD player fixed but I quickly sussed there must have been more to it; was Gail bullshitting me? There was certainly more to this girl than met the eye ... but what did meet the eye wasn't half bad so I let it slide.

  We headed back out through the city centre, hit the Corstorphine Road. Gail fumbled for a pack of smokes, sparked up. I took one, opened the window and had a hit on the red Marlboro. The clear white trail that escaped the window had me smiling at the thought of my new-found freedom. Did I really want to take any risks with that? Christ, life was a risk ... and short too, experience over the last few years had taught me that. Perhaps it had made me a bit reckless as well. I mean, what was it all about, eh? When I think about being banged up and my Old Man ... and Jody, well, I try not to think about that. It's easier to just say fuck it ...