In truth, he had only said something that I had thought for myself. This place was too big, too wild for European tastes.
Later that night the major requested the Mohawk scouts meet him in his quarters, but neither man could be found; they had left, vanished into the forest. I felt a chill in my bones, a forewarning of what was to come. No amount of heat from our fire could shift it.
The evening began in fine fashion. Masterton excelled even despite his own high standards. He managed to turn a few stone of potatoes, a leg of salted pork and some rough vegetables into a mouthwatering feast for each of us. The grog flowed freely.
The major recited "The Lay of Lady Jane", as bawdy a verse as any old sea-dog might muster. It was all the better coming from our Commanding Officer. Irish Jim told a tall tale of a man from Orkney who was twelve feet high with a two-foot cock he used to beat off foreign raiders. The room was filled with laughter.
"A tune," came the call. "A tune from Jack."
When Jack McMaster, the eldest of the platoon, started on the squeeze-box we could almost believe ourselves back in Scotland once more. All went quiet as he started up, a tune that we all knew well, for we had sung it many times afore, albeit with lighter hearts and warmer circumstances.
Once more we sail with a northerly gale
Through the ice and sleet and rain.
And them coconut fronds in them tropic lands
We soon shall see again.
Six hellish months we've passed away
Sailing the Greenland seas,
And now we're bound from the Arctic ground,
Rolling down to old Maui.
Jack was getting old, but his voice was as clear and true as a young man's. It rang through the rafters, promising of hot sun and even warmer women. We all joined in on the chorus
Rolling down to old Maui, my boys,
Rolling down to old Maui.
We're southward bound from the Arctic ground
Rolling home to old Maui.
At first, the talking and laughter was somewhat muted, and if some drank more than was good for them, the rest of us pretended not to notice. An Ulsterman told of his exploits against the Turks, Bald Tom regaled us with tall tales of the Amsterdam brothels. Jack sang whaler's songs before starting up "The Girl from Brest." We sang along at the top of our voices. The stockade rang loud, keeping the cold at bay, for a while at least. For that short span, we made a common bond that life was good once more. It nearly was.
*****
I woke sometime later, sitting upright in the armchair. Weak daylight sneaked under the door of the room, and I was surprised to find it was after eight in the morning. The Journal lay open in my lap. I closed it, and put it away in my inside pocket. If it did have anything to tell me about the case, it was taking its time in getting to it, and I didn't have the luxury of being able to wait.
I tried to get out of the chair. It didn't want to let me go, and I fought to get my legs to realize they were needed. My back cracked and popped as I pushed myself upright and my shoulders felt like a weightlifter had been using them while I slept.
At least my nuts had stopped throbbing.
Cigarette or breakfast?
Food won, this time, and I headed out to the bar in search of George.
He stood in his place behind the counter, cleaning out the pipes of the hand-pumped ales. My heart sank when I saw who he was talking to...Jim Crawford was the last person I wanted to see.
*****
Crawford and I had a history that went all the way back to our schooldays.
We had originally been in the same class all through primary school. Back then he'd been bigger than the rest of us, but he'd never been a bully. That started when we went to High School, and he found some other guys as big as he was. The usual schoolyard gangs formed, and his was the biggest and the toughest. Soon he ran protection rackets, demanding money with menaces and beating up smaller, smarter kids just because he could.
My first run-in with him happened when he picked on one of my friends. It proved to be an unequal fight, and, unfortunately, I'd come upon it late. Johnny already lay on the ground and was counting his teeth when I arrived, just in time to see Crawford swing his foot back for a kick. I jumped at him before thinking, and the next thing I knew he pinned me to the wall, slamming my head against the bricks. I blacked out while he pummelled me black and blue. That bought him a week's suspension, and me a mild concussion, three days in bed, and a further beating from my father for getting involved and "affronting" him.
It was while I lay in bed with a sore head that I learned my first lesson about fighting. If you're taking on a bigger, stronger opponent, you'd better have some sneaky moves...and it pays to hit him first. The next time I used a cricket bat. I sneaked up on him from behind, and hit him as hard as I could. It almost wasn't hard enough, and I needed to hit him twice. Blood spurted, shockingly red in his blonde hair, and I wasn't able to lift the bat a third time. But I'd hit him hard enough with that second blow; this time it was him that ended up with the concussion and me with the suspension. Both of us were off school for weeks. When we got back, we kept away from each other for a while, but he had just too much rage in him to forgive and forget.
A month later it came down to a knockdown fight in the school playground. I actually had a fit of guilt about almost breaking his head. I went up to him and offered him my hand.
"All square, Jim?" I asked.
He took my hand, pulled me towards him, and head-butted me, mashing my nose into my face and bringing the warm coppery taste of blood in my mouth. I kneed him in the crotch and he fell back. After that, it was all flying fists and feet. It ended in blood, tears, a broken nose each, and suspensions for both of us. The janitor told me days later, when we were sharing a fag round the back of the Games building, that it was the best scrap he'd seen since Foreman vs. Ali.
After that, Crawford and I held an uneasy truce. We stayed out of each other's way and made sure we moved in different circles. After we left school he spent a spell in jail for aggravated assault, and when he came out, his temper had been brought under control. He'd starting working in one of the local garages, and eventually became the owner. The only place we met was on the neutral ground of the Twa Dugs, and even then we usually kept to separate ends of the bar apart from occasional bouts of name-calling when one or the other of us had had too much to drink. He still called me Squinty due to the fact I'd had a lazy eye at one point as a boy.
Usually I just called him a big shite.
*****
He turned around as I came into the bar and a broad grin spread across his face.
"Well look at what the cat dragged in...it's the Fugitive."
I ignored him and gave George a look that told him just what I thought of his clientele. He at least had the good grace to look sheepish.
"Jim and I had a wee bit of business to do this morning," he said. "And I thought you'd still be sleeping."
"So, how much will you give me not to go to the cops?" Crawford said. The grin was still there, but his eyes were as hard as ever...hard and calculating.
"I'll give you a fat lip..." I said, and stepped forward.
George stopped me with a look.
"House rules, boys. Any fighting gets taken outside."
Crawford laughed again.
"Oh, I'll not be fighting the lad...not today. It looks like somebody else has done the job for me. I'll see you later."
He gave George a mock salute, and gave me a wink as he went past me. "Watch your back, Squinty. You never know who'll be looking for you next."
*****
"Will he go to the cops?" George asked me as the door shut.
I see-sawed my hand "Maybe, or maybe not. I don't have time to hang around to find out. Did you get that trip sorted?"
"Aye. Nae bother. I've got tickets from Dublin to St John's for you. They'll be coming any minute now."
"Hold on to them for me for a while longer," I said. "I'll need
to fetch my passport. It's back in the office...somewhere," I said sheepishly.
"Well you're going to have to get it...and a change of clothes...you're getting a bit of a whiff going."
He opened the drawer on the bar. He put the envelope in it and handed me the hair belt. "And please, take this away. It's been giving me the heebie-jeebies. I swear it moves on its own."
*****
George had a driver and a van waiting for me out the back of the pub.
"I'll get those tickets to you somehow...don't worry about that. The driver will take you to Helensburgh. There's a boat waiting there to take you to Ireland. After that, you're on your own."
I shook his hand.
"I owe you one," I said.
"Hell, you owe me a dozen. You can start paying when you get back."
I got in the van. I recognized the driver as a bar regular, but I didn't know his name, and he didn't look like he was in any hurry to give it to me. He seemed more interested in rooting around in his nose with his index finger. I sat beside him and tried to look inconspicuous as we drove up Byres Road.
"That's you, isn't it?" he said as we sat at a set of traffic lights. "The mannie on the telly?"
I didn't reply, but he wasn't really looking for an answer. I'd been in Glasgow long enough to know when a story was coming.
"I've never met anybody that killed a Lord before. But I did once know somebody that gave one a blow-job. It was..."
I tuned him out, and settled for grunting in the appropriate places. It must have been a doozy of a story, though, for he almost laughed himself to tears at the end of it.
"I've got change..." he said, and started to laugh again. I guessed that was the punch line, and managed a small laugh of my own.
The lights had changed, but he hadn't noticed until I rapped on the dashboard in front of him.
"All right," he said. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."
That brought another long bout of laughter from him. I wondered if he was maybe a bit daft...but he knew where he was going. He pulled off the road and round the back of the office to the lock-ups.
"You've got five minutes, then I'm offski," he said. "I don't care how many favors George is calling in."
I left him examining the contents of his left nostril and headed, cautiously, up the stairs to the office.
*****
Someone had been through it, and not too tidily, either. My filing system, such as it was, had been strewn on the floor, and stamped on hard. Torn paper and card lay among the shiny black remnants of my jazz '78s. It didn't seem to be a burglar; or if it was, it was one with no taste, for my 1930's silver cigarette case still sat on the desk. I put the belt and envelope down beside it while I cradled what was left of my Bessie Smith collection. I felt like weeping, but I had no time.
The bedroom was no better; my clothes lay in small piles around the slashed ruins of my mattress.
I didn't have time for a shower, but I did manage a quick change into jeans and a heavy wool jacket. My passport was where I thought it would be...in the folder along with my income tax returns.
I had just put it away in a pocket alongside the Journal when someone spoke behind me.
"Maid's day off, is it?"
I turned to face a man in his mid twenties.
"I don't know you," I said.
"Mark, Mark Turner. We spoke on the phone?"
My fifty-fifty case.
I'd forgotten all about him.
"I'm sorry, son," I said. "I'm going to have to pass. There's a bit of a stushie on."
He didn't get a chance to reply, for Jim Crawford chose that moment to make his appearance.
And he brought company. Three Goths stood behind him in the doorway, refugees from last night's magic show.
"There he is," Crawford said. "And he's got it...I saw George give it to him."
"What are you talking about?" I said, trying to seem calm. "Have you been at the weed again, Jim?"
"You know what I mean, Squinty," he said. "Yon wee hairy belt. These lads want it. They want it bad."
"This thing you mean?" a voice said behind me.
I turned to see Turner buckle the belt around his waist.
My office quickly got messier.
CHAPTER 4
The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of
Turner howled, a wail of pain that came from deep inside him. He tried to tear at the belt, to rip it off, but his hands ran like melting plastic, his skin growing darker, leathery.
The three Goths had already made a quick getaway, but Crawford was too stupid. He stood gawking while Turner changed.
He wasn't a man anymore. His backbone curved, forcing his head lower to the ground-a head that slowly stretched and elongated as long fangs burst from bloody gums. Talons slid from under his fingernails, slithering, viscid, like a wet fart.
Turner's shirt split with a loud rip, and new muscles strained tight against the man's leather jacket. Thick bristles of hair forced their way through his skin, the hands lengthening as the talons grew longer and knuckles popped. A long snout lifted in the air, sniffing.
Crawford finally found his voice. "What the fuck is that thing?"
"Just don't let it hump your leg," I said, and tried to sidle unobtrusively around the room.
I wasn't given a chance.
Turner, or rather, the thing that had been Turner, shook off the last torn remnants of clothing, and leapt forward, straight at Jim Crawford.
The big man's street instincts kicked in. He swung on the ball of his left foot and put his weight into a punch that knocked the beast across the room.
It came back at him again, twice as fast, twice as angry. Crawford had no chance in the face of such fury. He went down under it. A rolling maul of legs, fur, claws and fists tumbled across the office floor. Blood spurted, its coppery odor suddenly hot and strong in the air.
I picked up the first thing that came to hand, hefted it, and swung, as hard as I could manage. The smell of blood was replaced by the sharp tang of burning hair. The beast rolled off Crawford, howling in pain, the left side of its face red raw and smoking.
The silver cigarette case in my hand felt hot to the touch...but I wasn't about to put it down.
Beneath me, Crawford groaned.
I watched the beast warily, but it showed no interest in me; it pawed and scratched at the still smoldering wound in its face.
"Can you walk, big man?" I whispered.
"If you give me a hand getting up, I'll bloody well run," he replied.
I heard pain in his voice, but he didn't show it as I gave him my free hand and he climbed to his feet.
The beast took notice of us again and moved forward. I smelled it, burnt hair, blood, and something else, a heavy musk.
I showed it the cigarette case.
It backed away.
"Now what?" Crawford whispered.
"I'm open to suggestions," I whispered back.
The decision was taken out of my hands.
The insistent nee-naw of a police siren came through from outside. The beast pawed the air in front of it, trying to catch the sounds. As the siren got even closer, it howled again, so loud that I thought my head would burst.
Then it was gone, leaving behind a crash of glass as it dove, headfirst, out the window.
Crawford looked at me, and I looked back; neither of us were able to speak. It was only the crash of the downstairs door being forced open that got us moving.
"It's coming back," Crawford said, and there was fear there in his voice.
"No. That's the coppers. Are you still up for that run?"
*****
We made it down the fire escape without anyone noticing, and thirty seconds later stood next to the van in the yard.
A large dent had almost caved in the roof of the vehicle. The driver stood at the side of the van, looking up at my office.
"I thought Bellshill was bad," he said, shaking his head. "But even there they don't throw Rottweilers out of win
dows."
He looked at me, and at Crawford. The big man bled from wounds all up and down his arms, leaving a blood trail across the yard.
"So is it Helensburgh or what?" the driver said. "Only your pal here looks like he needs some stitching up."
"Back to the pub," I said, helping Crawford into the van. "And make it fast. The cops are right behind us."
On cue, a policeman poked his head out of the broken window.
"Down there...in the yard!" he shouted, but by then we were already on our way.
"Is your life always this interesting?" the driver said. "Only, I was thinking about a change of job."
I laughed.
"The hours are shitty, the pay is worse, and you don't want to know about the pension plan. Stick to driving...even in this city, it's the safer option."
I watched out the wing mirror all the way down Byres Road, but nobody...and no thing...followed us.
*****
George raised an eyebrow as I helped Jim Crawford through to the back of the Twa Dugs.
"You're not off to Helensburgh then?"
"Just a wee diversion," I replied. "The big man here needs some bandages."
"And some whisky," Crawford added. "A lot of whisky."
I guessed he wasn't as badly hurt as I thought.
I got him through to the back room.
I helped him peel his shirt off. His belly below his nipples was a network of cuts and gouges, but none of them looked life threatening.
"Looks like the belly saved your life," I said.
He almost sobbed. "And they said all that beer was bad for me."
George came in with the first aid kit he kept behind the bar, and between us we got Crawford patched up. While we were doing it, he tried to get a half bottle of whisky inside himself, and got close to managing it before George took the bottle off him.
"That's enough for now, Jim."
George looked over at me.
"You have a story to tell me."
It wasn't a question.
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