Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  She grinned. ‘All night. Stevie cleared it with Iris. She wasnae happy about it.’

  He went to take a couple of the Tennent’s screw tops off the set of drawers and she wagged a finger at him. ‘Still have to pay for drink. You know that.’

  He shook his head, took out a fifty pence, left it in the porcelain dish by the bottles.

  The shebeen was big, one of those huge Victorian flats you got in Glasgow, every room converted to a bedroom apart from the kitchen. That was Iris’s domain. She sat on an old kitchen chair in the doorway, crates of bottles and big Chas the bouncer looming behind her. She’d told him once that the shebeen made twice as much money out the drink as it did out the girls, whatever that said about Glasgow. She didn’t mess about, Iris. Only sold whisky and beer. Take it or leave it. Tennent’s and Red Hackle.

  The real money was made after hours and on a Sunday. By midnight on a Friday or three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, when the real drinkers started to get the shakes, she could pretty much charge what she wanted for it. He’d passed enough shame-faced women and rheumy-eyed men on the stairs to know how well she did. Drinkers always found the money from somewhere. Even if it meant their weans didn’t eat the next day.

  Janey’d built a joint with the grass he’d brought, good stuff, according to Robbie, taken off some American band playing at Greene’s Playhouse the night before. Half of it deposited into the lock-up at Central and half straight into Robbie’s pocket. He’d only charged him a quid. By the expression on Janey’s face should have been a lot more than that.

  She put the thin joint in his mouth, closed her own over the burning end, lips forming a seal, and blew the smoke deep into his lungs. He held his breath as long as he could then let out a cloud of the sweet-smelling smoke. Didn’t take long to kick in. He felt a bit woozy, good. Robbie was right. He took it back off her, had a couple more deep puffs and handed it back.

  Janey’d put a scarf over the wee lamp on the bedside table, lit a few joss sticks, stuck some pictures from magazines of beaches and expensive cars onto the peeling wallpaper. Anything to make the place a bit less like the back bedroom of a cold-water flat in Possilpark. ‘Atmosphere’ she called it. ‘Punters like it, younger ones anyway.’

  He sat down on the end of the bed, tried to untie the laces of his shoes. He giggled, was more difficult than he thought. He managed to get his tie and shirt off, tried and failed to unbuckle his belt, started giggling again. Janey’d put an album on the wee record player in the corner. Their Satanic Majesties Request. Had to keep it low, though. Iris didn’t like her playing music, couldn’t hear what was going on. Wasn’t his favourite, but tonight it sounded good. Grass, drink and the music were starting to work together, perfect equilibrium.

  Janey started dancing. Watching herself in the cracked mirror in the wardrobe. She was swaying to the music, singing along. She was a good-looking girl: long black hair, curvy body, funny wee button nose and a big smile. Too good-looking to be working here. Iris’s shebeen wasn’t exactly what you’d call high class. Punters were mostly labourers off the sites or men from the Iron Box factory with Friday night’s wages burning a hole in their pocket. Every time he tried to ask her about it, tell her to find somewhere else, she laughed it off. Told him she liked it here, had worked in a lot worse places.

  She caught sight of him in the mirror watching her, smiled and stuck her tongue out at him. He leant over and pulled her down onto the bed beside him. She laughed, pretended to struggle. He kissed her as she kicked off her platform sandals, wiggled out her hot pants. He kissed her neck, moved his hands down to her breasts, cock already hard against her thigh. Dope was really kicking in now; he felt heavy, slow, relaxed. He moved down her. She ran her fingers through his hair and he looked up at her, grinned.

  ‘You and me, Janey. You and me,’ he said.

  The record stopped, arm lifted, went back and then the music started again. ‘She’s a Rainbow.’ He was in her now, getting quicker, breathing heavy against her neck, getting there. She wrapped her legs around his back, moved in closer, whispered in his ear. ‘Come on, my wee darling. Come on . . .’

  He moved another few times, tried to hold back but couldn’t. He moaned, collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily into her neck. He lay there for a minute, then raised himself up on his elbows, looked into her eyes.

  ‘That was magic. How about you? You okay?’

  She nodded, slapped him on the back. ‘Let’s do another, eh?’

  He rolled off, sat up against the headboard and watched her. She was sitting cross-legged, bag of grass and fold of papers on the album cover nestling in her lap, long dark hair hanging down like a curtain over her face. She was a pro, could roll a joint in seconds flat, could even do it with one hand if she had to.

  He looked at his watch. Ten past twelve. He wasn’t going to any restaurants tonight, didn’t care, too stoned to go anywhere. Nairn could fuck off. He wasn’t his fucking errand boy. He wanted to be here, with her. She lit up another joint and took a deep drag.

  ‘As of ten minutes ago it’s my birthday,’ he said. ‘January second.’

  ‘That right?’ she asked. ‘What age are you, then?’

  ‘Thirty. Past it.’

  She smiled hazily, eyes glassy. Leant over and kissed him, put the joint in his mouth. He took a drag, felt a rush to his head. He couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate. He exhaled, lay back on the bed. Could hear Janey singing to herself as she built another joint. Could hear a closing door and the clatter of some punter’s boots walking down the corridor, Iris answering the door and the clink of bottles as she handed them over.

  Janey leant over him and gently blew a cloud of the grass smoke into his face. He breathed in, watched the headlights of the cars driving past making giant shadows that came and went. He listened to the rain battering against the window, remembered being in a caravan with his mum and dad when he was a wee boy. Janey switched the lamp off, snuggled up beside him. He watched the orange end of the joint glow and fade as she inhaled. He put his arm round her shoulders, pulled her in, let his eyes close and he drifted away.

  2nd January 1973

  THREE

  McCoy woke up freezing cold, all of the blankets wrapped round Janey, only a sheet between him and the ice starting to form on the inside of the windows. He tried to burrow under the sheets and fall back asleep, but it didn’t work. Combination of a hangover and the cold meant he’d no chance. He tried to shake Janey awake, but she was having none of it, just grunted and turned away, burrowed back down under the blankets. He got dressed quickly, picking up his clothes from where he’d dropped them, pulled the front door of the shebeen closed behind him and walked down the stairs. Half five. Too late to go home, too early to go into work. Maybe he’d check the restaurants after all. He’d nothing else to do.

  The city was starting to wake up, first buses rolling past, passengers leaning on the windows half asleep, bundled up against the cold. Despite the holiday New Year was over, back to normal, no matter how bad the hangovers were. Christmas lights hanging across the streets were still on, bells and holly weakly flashing on and off through the freezing mist and the snow that was starting to fall. A dog appeared round the corner of Sauchiehall Street, ran at the seagulls feeding on an overturned bin and they wheeled up and away, squawking into the sky.

  McCoy was freezing, been standing in under the canopy of the Malmaison since half six, stamping his feet and blowing in his hands to try and keep warm. So far he’d watched a road sweeper trying to gather up all the soggy chip packets and empty beer bottles strewn round the street, bought a paper off a boy selling them from a pram, and stood out the way as two blokes pushed a cart full of old carpet and underlay up Hope Street. He conducted a thorough search of every one of his pockets, still couldn’t find his other glove. He took the one he had off his left hand and stuck it on his right just as the restaurant manager turned up. Mr Agnotti, as he introduced himself. A right snotty wee bastard, as it turned
out. Suppose you had to be to work in a place like that. McCoy’d only been in the restaurant once. Murray’s fiftieth birthday dinner. Didn’t think he’d be back, not unless he won the pools. It was a big room, wood panelled, hushed waiters going back and forwards with silver service trays and bottles of wine. Other clientele were all businessmen, stuffed with well-done steaks and prawn cocktails, after-dinner cigars plugging their fat faces.

  Agnotti took McCoy into his office, asked to see his badge before he would answer any questions. Wasn’t happy about being interviewed. Turned out they did have one girl called Lorna working there, an under-waitress, whatever that was. He wrote out an address on a wee card and handed it over.

  ‘May I enquire what this is about?’ he asked.

  McCoy smiled at him, couldn’t help himself. ‘No,’ he said.

  A kitchen porter was coming in as he was leaving, chaining up his bike outside. He pointed at a picture on the staff notice-board in the corridor when he asked him if he knew Lorna Skirving. It had been taken at some staff night out. Four women sat round a table in a pub all dressed up, glasses held high, big smiles. Lorna Skirving was the one at the end. Nineteen, low-cut dress, dyed blonde hair, good-looking. He took it off the wall and pocketed it. Had to be who Nairn meant. He’d already been to Whitehall’s and they didn’t have anyone called Lorna working there: two Laura’s but no Lorna.

  According to the kitchen porter she’d no phone, so he called the shop, got them to send a panda up to her address to bring her in. He waited in the kitchen, was the warmest place, and watched them setting up the lunch service. Big pans of potatoes and carrots coming to the boil, trays of meat coming out the cold store. An Italian guy with no English appeared from the back and handed him a tiny wee cup of strong coffee. He said ‘Gracias’ thinking he was clever, was only when the guy walked away looking a bit puzzled he realised he wasn’t. The shop called back fifteen minutes later. Uniforms had been on the radio, no answer at her door. Must have left for work already. He sighed, nothing else for it, and called Wattie from the payphone. This was going to be more than a one-man job.

  The Golden Egg cafe was a right dump, like a Wimpy without the Wimpy name. Even had a menu with pictures on it – pictures that must have been taken somewhere else, if his bacon and eggs were anything to go by. But it had one virtue: it was right opposite the bus station. So close he could even hear the announcements from the station tannoy over the chat of the other customers and the orders being shouted through to the back kitchen. He rubbed at the condensation on the window and peered out. Eight o’clock and it wasn’t even properly light yet, streetlights still on, snow getting worse, lying now. Cars and buses nose to tail as they queued at the big junction to Buchanan Street. Lorna Skirving’s address was in Royston; all the buses from there came into the city via the bus station. She had to come in this way. Now all he had to do was spot her in the crowd before she got to work and some bloke who didn’t like last night’s lobster thermidor stabbed her to death.

  ‘What time does she start?’

  McCoy turned, had almost forgotten he was there. Wattie. Old mucker of Murray’s at the Greenock shop had called him, said he had a bright boy, too bright for Greenock, should be up in Glasgow playing with the big boys. The bright boy was sitting in his chair ramrod straight, surveying the crowd outside like some sentry on guard duty. McCoy’d argued with Murray, tried to get out of it, tried to pass him on to Richards, Wilson, anyone but him, but Murray was adamant. He’d done three months in the shop answering the phones, making the tea. Was time for him to shadow someone for a few months. Murray got round him the usual way. Flattery. Bright boy needs watching, can’t give him to some plodder like Richards. Didn’t know why Murray was so keen, you’d think he’d have learnt his lesson by now. He’d had the complaints before, was sure he was going to get them again. Last secondment had gone back crying to Murray. ‘He doesn’t tell me what’s going on, doesn’t speak to me, blah blah blah.’ But here the new one was, blond hair wetted down and neatly combed, big open face, dark suit and shined shoes. Twenty-six and he looked about fifteen. About as green as they come.

  ‘Half eight, supposed to be,’ said McCoy, yawning widely.

  ‘Can I see the photo again?’ asked Wattie.

  He handed it over. Looking at Wattie was like looking at himself five years ago. Been a long time since he’d been as bright-eyed and enthusiastic. Been a long time since he’d come to work with his shoes shined and his shirt ironed too. He took a look at his reflection in the window, didn’t look good. He needed a haircut and a suit that didn’t look like he’d slept in it.

  He stood up, looked outside. A layer of white settling on the tarmac. ‘We’ll head over there, see if we can catch her coming in.’

  The bus station sat at the top of the town, hemmed in by the high flats at Dobbies Loan at one side and the new motorway that had destroyed the old Garscube Road on the other. It was a huge asphalt rectangle, must have been half an acre, lined with slanted bays for the buses to park. Shelters and benches ran round the outside, a cafe that made the Golden Egg look like Malmaison near the entrance. Buses came in from everywhere – housing estates on the edge of town, rich suburbs, even from the coast, Ardrossan and Largs. And the bus to London went from here, one every morning, always a big queue waiting for that one. The chance of a new life for a five-bob bus ticket.

  A fat bloke with a hat and a whistle told them the Royston buses came in at bays 21 to 24 and pointed them up to the far corner. An old woman sitting on the bench by bay 22 gave McCoy a dirty look as he sat down, sniffed and moved herself and her plastic bags up a couple of feet. He watched Wattie pace up and down, stamping his feet to keep warm, flicking the top of his lighter open and shut, humming something under his breath. At least he was quiet; the last one had never bloody shut up. Some twat from Edinburgh with a science degree, in the accelerated promotion fast track, as he told you every five minutes. Went back to Edinburgh with his tail between his legs after he tried to arrest two women fighting outside the Barrowlands and got a broken nose and a black eye for his trouble.

  A double-decker spun round the asphalt and pulled into the bay in front of them. McCoy stood up. The bus door hissed and folded back. A couple of old men muttering about the snow stepped down, followed by a bloke in a boiler suit with his piece in a loaf wrapper tucked under his arm, then a group of school kids all shouting and pushing each other. No Lorna Skirving.

  She wasn’t on the next one either. Wattie eventually got tired of pacing, sat down on the bench and pushed his heels out in front of him, stretched his legs, yawned loudly. McCoy sat, watched an old man throwing crumbs onto the wet ground, sparrows flying in from nowhere.

  Another bus came and went, still no Lorna. He was beginning to think Nairn had been taking the piss after all when he saw the crowd across the other side of the station scattering. Shouts, a man falling backwards as he tried to run. A woman screamed.

  McCoy started running. He was halfway across the forecourt when a reversing bus almost hit him. He jumped out the way, stumbled, looked up and saw what the crowd was backing away from. He was young, couldn’t have been more than a teenager, anorak, jeans. His left arm was out in front of him, gun gripped tightly in his hand.

  ‘Police!’ shouted McCoy. ‘Drop it!’

  Clatter of heavy shoes and Wattie was beside him, breath coming out in clouds, eyes darting everywhere. McCoy grabbed his shoulder, pointed over at the crowd. ‘Get them down and back. Now!’

  Wattie nodded, ran off looking terrified. He didn’t have time to worry about him, though. Had to get to the gun before the boy decided to fire it. He took a deep breath and started walking towards him. He tried to sound calm, wasn’t easy, he could feel his heart going like a hammer in his chest.

  ‘Just put it down, pal. No harm done, eh?’

  His voice made him sound like he was trying too hard, being too nice, nothing he could do about that. The boy didn’t even look at him, just kept moving his head f
rom right to left, scanning the crowd, looking for someone. He could hear Wattie shouting behind him, trying to get the crowd out the firing line. A woman was crying, some wee kid screaming, more shouts. He tried to block the noise out. Just him and the boy with the gun, that’s all that mattered. He kept walking towards him, going slow, hands held up, getting closer, keeping in between him and the crowd.

  ‘C’mon, pal, gonnae have to stop this now. Just put it down, eh? It’s not like—’

  The boy’s eyes suddenly focused, like he’d just seen McCoy for the first time. He spun his arm round towards him and lined up a shot, pistol aimed square at his head. McCoy froze as the boy adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp crack. A cloud of sparrows took off from the roof and the screaming started in earnest.

  McCoy couldn’t believe he hadn’t been hit, would have sworn he felt a push of cold air just above his head. People behind him were running, falling, shoving each other out the road to get away. Wattie shouting at everyone to keep down. They started to drop and that’s when McCoy saw her. She was lying half on, half off the pavement, body stretched across the kerb. Blonde hair, white coat, one shiny black shoe lying a few feet away from her. She tried to sit up, looked round bewildered. Blood was flowing down her legs, starting to turn the snow red. She looked down at it, her mouth opened to scream but no sound came. McCoy turned back towards the boy with the gun.

  ‘Put it down, pal, come on, it’s done now. Just put it down.’

  The boy smiled at him, didn’t look like he was all there. His eyes were blank, faraway. He held the gun up in front of him, looked at it. Snowflakes had settled in his hair, were melting, dripping down his face. He wiped his eyes and smiled again, and that’s when McCoy realised what he was going to do.

  He started running towards him, shoes trying to find purchase on the greasy ground. He was still a couple of yards away when the boy stuck the barrel up to his temple. He was screaming at him to stop, was almost at him when the boy closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.