by Alan Parks
McCoy stood up. His time was up. He had to get out. Couldn’t be in this hot wee office any more, couldn’t listen to another angry priest talking about the care of the nuns. He put his hand out, steadied himself on the desk, stood for a minute. Wattie looked up at him, didn’t know what was going on.
‘You okay, sir?’
He nodded. ‘You done?’
Wattie looked unsure, checked his notebook. ‘Near enough, I think.’
‘I’ll get you outside.’
He walked to the door, could hear McClure starting up already, complaining as he shut the door behind him. Didn’t want to listen to it. He headed up past the gym with its wall bars and yellow varnished floor and pushed open a door with ‘Boys Toilet’ painted on it. He ran the tap, stood there in front of the mirror, tried to calm himself down. He could walk out of here any time. No one was going to stop him, drag him back. He was thirty, a detective. He splashed his face with the cold water. Needed to a get a grip. Things were getting bad again. He took out his wallet. Wee card was still in there. The one the doctor had given him, the one he swore he wouldn’t put on his record. Fine blue copperplate writing: ‘Alison Horne MD MRCPsych’. In other words, the shrink.
He found a bench outside under some trees, sat down, tried to light a cigarette. Wind was up, trees rustling and swaying. Paisley Road West, with its pubs and cafes and people, was only on the other side of the wall, but it felt miles away. The chapel and the home were totally cut off. Gust of wind swung the wooden sign by the entrance on its chains. ‘NAZARETH HOUSE’. McCoy heard Wattie say goodbye and thank you, saw the priest outlined in the light from the hall. The door shut and Wattie looked around the garden.
‘What are you sitting here for?’ he asked, sitting down and pulling his collar up.
‘No car keys,’ he said.
‘What’s up with you anyway? What was all that about?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘Something I ate. He have anything else to say?’
‘What? Apart from complaining about you? Took me ten minutes to get the bastard to agree not to phone Murray. What got into you?’
McCoy tried to light his cigarette again, didn’t say anything.
Wattie sighed, knew he would get nowhere. ‘Nothing really. Hasn’t seen him since he went off to that job, doesn’t know the girl. Never heard of her. Or Howie Nairn. He’s going to do the formal at Crown Street tomorrow.’
‘Big of him. Where’d he work then, this Tommy Malone? Next port of call, I suppose.’
‘Somewhere out Drymen way.’ He looked at his notebook. ‘Place called Broughton House.’
McCoy stopped, looked up at him. ‘Christ, you’re joking, aren’t you? The Dunlop place?’
Wattie nodded. ‘That’s it. You know it?’
‘Oh aye, I know it all right.’
The Dunlops. That was all he needed. Perfect end to a perfect day. He flicked his soaking cigarette away into the darkness.
‘Come on, you can buy me a drink, see if it settles my stomach.’
ELEVEN
They started at Wypers. Used to be the hotspot years ago, dark bar with a great jukebox, Small Faces, Motown, Yardbirds. Always full of mods with their bum freezer suits on, lassies with big beehive hairdos and eyes like pandas. Not any more. Now it was just a dark bar full of drunken office workers and women who worked in the department stores in Sauchiehall Street. McCoy didn’t care, all he was interested in was getting pissed. Wattie didn’t seem too impressed though, moaned through a pint with his face tripping him, wanted to go somewhere with a bit more life. McCoy couldn’t be bothered arguing, so they headed down to the Muscular Arms. Turned out Wattie didn’t like that pub either. Took one look in and decided it was too full of posers. At that point McCoy gave up, started walking back up the hill, Wattie trailing behind him asking what was up. He pulled the brass door of Sammy Dow’s open, letting out the smell of smoke, old beer and wet overcoats.
‘This is where I’m going. Take it or leave it.’
Wattie muttered something under his breath about ‘bloody old man’s pub’ and followed him in. They squeezed in at the bar between two old boys nursing half pints and a couple of soldiers getting torn into it, Glengarries tucked under their epaulettes. McCoy ordered the pints, then another two, then two more. As Cowie always said, there weren’t many problems that didn’t look a bit better after a few pints. Nazareth House was retreating, being replaced by a fuzzy calm. He wasn’t sure if Wattie was in the huff but he seemed happy to stand there, asking the occasional question or just drinking his pint. Or at least he was for a while, till the beer kicked in. They’d moved to one of the wee tables by then, round by the fireplace. Between the crowded bar and the coal fire the pub was boiling, both of them down to their shirtsleeves, jackets and coats over the backs of their seats.
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Wattie, face flushed, hair clinging to his damp forehead.
McCoy was expecting another question about shift times, or how to pass the sergeants’ papers. He nodded, starting to feel a bit sleepy in the heat. ‘Fire away.’
‘Who’s Stevie Cooper?’
He wasn’t expecting that, wasn’t expecting that at all. ‘Stevie Cooper? What you asking that for?’
‘Today, when you weren’t there. When I was sitting all by myself like a right arse—’
McCoy held his hand up. ‘Enough. Jesus Christ.’
Wattie grinned. ‘So I had a sandwich in the canteen. Blokes at the next table were talking about him. He’s a top boy? Runs Springburn? Up that way?’
McCoy nodded, not sure where this was going. ‘Aye, what about him?’
Wattie was about to reply when an old man came up to the table, sweat ringing the armpits of his shirt, bunnet still clamped on his head. He stopped, leant in. ‘Jesus, it’s like a bloody Japanese prisoner of war camp in here. Any of you lads see us a smoke?’
Wattie handed him the packet, bloke took one, was about to start on another funny when he noticed the two of them staring at each other. He nodded a thanks and waddled off sharpish.
‘Someone said he was your pal. Cooper is,’ said Wattie.
‘Oh aye, that what they said, was it? You sure?’
Wattie shifted in his seat a bit, steeled himself, shook his head. ‘Not exactly. They said you were in his pocket.’
McCoy drained what was left of his pint and stood up. Wattie looked up at him, face all worried.
‘I didn’t mean to say anything out—’
McCoy leant over him to grab the wallet out his jacket and Wattie flinched, sat back in his seat. McCoy laughed. ‘Christ, calm down. I’m only going to get another round in, not lamp you. Another pint?’
He was back in a couple of minutes, battled through the crowd, put the glasses down on the sticky wee table and lit up. ‘So, who was it saying this then?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘Don’t know their names. One of them had reddish hair and . . .’
McCoy held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, doesn’t matter. All you need to know is I’m not in Cooper’s pocket, never have been, never will be.’
Wattie nodded. ‘I feel bad for saying it now. I never thought you were. Honest. No offence, eh?’
‘Don’t worry, takes a fuck of a lot more than that to offend me.’
Maybe it was the beer or the fact Wattie was so green it hurt, or maybe he just wanted to play the big man; whatever it was, McCoy was in the mood to give him some advice. ‘This is no Greenock or wherever the fuck you come from. This is Glasgow. The big bad city, things work differently. They have to or we’d be at war twenty-four fucking hours a day. We use them, they use us.’
Wattie was trying to follow him but he was looking lost.
‘We look the other way one day, or don’t press charges or go easy, and they serve up some nonce cunt we can’t get a hold of another. Get me? Some new boy from out of town starts causing trouble, trying to muscle in, we get a tip. We take him out the picture, send him back where he came from and life goes bac
k to normal. Easier for everyone.’
Still looked lost.
‘For that to happen there has to be some to and fro. You want to get ahead in this game you need an inside track, someone to talk to, connections on the other side of the fence.’
‘And that’s Stevie Cooper?’
McCoy nodded. ‘And that’s Stevie Cooper. Those cunts in the canteen just don’t get it. Fifteen years in and still no hope of getting any higher than a duty sergeant. Make themselves feel better by saying things like that about me. I don’t give a fuck and they feel better about their shitey lives. Everybody wins.’
Wattie nodded, looked serious. ‘So how do I get to know someone like that? How did you get to know a Stevie Cooper?’
McCoy took a draft of his pint. ‘That’s my business. Now I’m fucked if I’m sitting here talking about work all night. Drink up, we’re going.’
*
The billiard hall was upstairs from a bank at the corner of Ingram Street. Been there ever since McCoy could remember, had gone through a few names over the years, now it was Bob’s Billiards. Not that anyone played billiards any more; all snooker now since it was on the telly. A nod from Johnny on the door and they went up the stairs. It was a huge place, almost thirty tables disappearing back into the gloom, quiet apart from the clacking of balls and the low hum of conversation. The hall had had a few different owners over the years but not one of them had got round to doing the place up. Still looked like the thirties inside, gas lamps poking out the wall thick with dust, patterned carpets worn through to the backing. It was a decent place though, good tables, well run. That’s how it kept its licence all these years; real players still came here to practise.
McCoy wasn’t a great player but he liked the place, ended up here after the pubs shut a couple nights a week. Wattie’d started off okay, few good pots, matching him, only losing by a couple of balls. But by the time they were on to the third game he was all over the shop. Missed the ball completely a few times, wobbling on his feet.
Bobby, the Bob in Bob’s Billiards, wandered over from behind the bar, stood by McCoy and watched Wattie trying to line up a shot.
‘If that cunt rips my baize, you’re paying for it,’ he said amiably.
‘Och, he’s no that bad,’ said McCoy as Wattie mis-hit the white ball and it skittered off the table and rolled under the one-armed bandit in the corner.
‘Aye, so you were saying. Three hundred nicker to re-felt these things. You got that to spare?’
McCoy handed him his cue. ‘Point taken.’
He sat Wattie down on the wee bench by the door, rang a taxi for him from the payphone. He was half asleep, lying slumped against the wall beneath the big picture of dogs playing poker. Couldn’t really blame him, they’d been hammering it hard and he hadn’t been working his way through a handful of Black Bombers like McCoy had. Present from Robbie when he got Janey’s hash. Him and Johnny finally managed to get Wattie in a taxi, bunged the driver an extra quid to make sure he got home okay. He watched the cab drive off towards the West End, looked at his watch. Half twelve. He wasn’t ready for going home yet, not by a long shot.
He walked back into town, wee guy in George Square was selling tomorrow’s Record. He bought one. Front page was almost all type; they’d pushed the boat out, special red ink and everything.
BLOODY JANUARY: HOW MANY MORE TO DIE?
No wonder the guy was doing a roaring trade. Special edition. Pictures of Lorna Skirving in her school uniform looking innocent. Editorial lambasting Glasgow Police, the full ten yards. He stuffed it in a bin in Buchanan Street, kept going. Murray’s job had just got about ten times harder.
He ended up in the basement of Maggie’s up in Sauchiehall Street, watching the bikers play pool, too wired to go home. He got himself a pint and sat down in the corner out the way. The basement was like some sort of bikers’ clubhouse. Walls were plastered with magazine pictures of big-titted girls on choppers, benches round the walls full of long-haired blokes and girls in denim waistcoats. Music was loud, only song he recognised was ‘Silver Machine’, rest just merged into each other.
He got his wee red jotter out, trying to use the speed concentration to think his way through what had happened. He wrote down
Dunlop?
Broughton House?
Connection there?
Malone?
But that was as far as he got, couldn’t keep his mind on track, kept skittering off in every direction, so he put it away, supped at his pint and just watched the bikers. They all had big embroidered badges on their backs. Devil’s Disciples. Some cut-price version of the Hells Angels, he supposed. He knew most of them were probably carpet fitters or joiners from Carntyne with wives and kids at home, but they looked the part. Oily denims and stringy hair. Probably just seen Easy Rider one too many times. He didn’t blame them; he quite fancied a life on the open road. Drugs, drink, no responsibilities. Could be worse.
He liked the polis well enough, he was good at it and it had been good to him. Took him on at sixteen, no qualifications. Had been them or the army. Just that lately he’d the feeling he was about ten years too late for it. Detective ten years ago, that’s what he should have been. Simpler times then. These days he was stuck halfway between Murray and the bikers round the pool table. Sitting in an after-hours club speeding out his mind with a police badge hidden in his suit pocket. Two didn’t really fit together.
A bloke with a stinking Afghan coat, long dirty fingernails and yellow jaundiced eyes sat down and started talking to him. Just back from India, hippy trail to Kathmandu. Eventually got round to it and offered him a wee bottle of hash oil for a fiver. Took up his offer. Wasn’t so much for him but for Janey. She loved hash oil, dipped the ends of her fags in it and smoked them when she was with the punters. They never suspected a thing, joss sticks working their magic.
He gave the Afghan coat bloke a bomber, took the last one himself, swallowing it over with a whisky. Glasses chinking. ‘To Kathmandu!’ Soon as he took it he realised he shouldn’t have. He was getting too hyped up, too paranoid. Nazareth House had rattled him, put him off balance. Needed to talk to someone but Wattie had gone, bloke with the Afghan was gone, just him, the speed surging through his brain and the memory of Nazareth House rattling round.
Was the first time he’d been in a place like that for nearly twenty years. St Columba’s Home for Wayward Boys in Dingwall was the last one. Dad came to get him at the end of three months. Got down off the bus, three days sober and shaking like a shitting dog. Took him home to Glasgow and started drinking soon as they got there. A week later his dad was back in the Royal and he was back in Dingwall getting the shit kicked out of him again.
He looked at himself in the cracked toilet mirror; he was starting to look like him now, grey hair at the temples and in his beard, same hands. His eyes were wide, light hurting them, jaw was grinding. He fingered the little bottle of hash oil in his pocket. He’d go and see Janey, that’s what he’d do, smoke some of it and take the edge off. Lie in her bed in the light from the streetlamps outside, laugh with her at the noises coming from the other rooms and fall asleep. No more Nazareth House.
*
Iris sold him three screwtops before she told him Janey was on an all-nighter and he couldn’t see her. She was in with some councillor that Stevie Cooper wanted taking care of. Needed a smooth passage through the planning committee for some row of shops he was putting the money up for. Strict orders that he was to get the full treatment, even free drink. McCoy listened to Iris, nodded, told her he understood, pushed her aside and started hammering on Janey’s door. He needed to see her, needed to see her now, wanted to lie on the bed with her, fall asleep. Didn’t give a fuck about the councillor or Stevie Cooper or his row of fucking shops.
‘Janey, you in there?’ he shouted. Tried the handle, door was locked, Iris screaming at him. The key turned and the door opened a crack. Janey peered out, dressing gown wrapped round her, middle-aged man sitting up in the bed
looking terrified. The councillor’s fat face was the last thing he saw before Big Chas grabbed him, wrenched him round off the door and punched him hard in the stomach.
He had to give Chas his due, he didn’t really start hurting him until he’d asked for it, after he’d called him a cunt, punched him on the side of the head and tried to kick him in the balls. Only took two hard punches to his face from Chas to knock the fight out of him. He bundled him out, arm bent up his back. He’d a sense of doors opening, people peering out, then Chas ran him down the stairs, put a boot in his back and then he was lying sprawled on the pavement.
He lay there for a minute, trying to work out what hurt most, his arm or his face. He felt a shoe prod him in the side, opened his eyes. Chas was standing over him, big moon-face staring down at him, didn’t look happy. Didn’t look happy at all.
‘I don’t care if you are a polis, you do anything like that again and I swear I’ll bust you, so I will. Got it?’
Another prod with the shoe, harder this time. McCoy nodded, cold wet pavement felt good on his cheek, just wanted to lie there and go to sleep, let it all be over. Chas sighed, pulled him up, sat him down on the steps of the close. He managed to squeeze his bulk in beside him and sat down with a grunt. He took out his fags, lit two and handed him one.
‘You all right?’
McCoy nodded. Chas had been in Glasgow for years but he still had his broad Belfast accent, had worked on the shipyards before they got closed down. Rumour was him and Iris were an occasional item; she let him into her bed once a month or so, depending on how many gins she’d had. McCoy couldn’t see it. She was a wee bird-like woman, Iris, and Chas was huge, feet like boats, always a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Still, you never knew.
‘Fuck’s up with you, McCoy?’ Chas’s eyes narrowed, saw something. ‘Hang on.’
McCoy felt his head being grabbed and spun round, found himself staring into Chas’s eyes. ‘Fucking thought so. Here.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his worn suit and produced a half bottle of Red Hackle, held it out.