by Alan Parks
She smiled at him. ‘I don’t believe you, Harry. Wish I could, but I can’t. Maybe if we hadn’t been so out of it we would have noticed something, heard him crying, I don’t know . . .’ Tears started again. She dug into her bag, took out a folding mirror and opened it, tutted, dabbed at her eyes. ‘Christ, I look a right state.’
McCoy sat and watched her repairing her make-up like he’d done so many times before. She’d sat in ‘her’ seat, the one nearest the kitchen. Habits die hard. He remembered them sitting at that table when she told him she was pregnant. Didn’t know who was more scared, him or her. She put everything back in her bag, snapped it shut and stood up. A wobble. Put her hand out and steadied herself.
‘Hasn’t stopped you, though,’ he said.
She nodded at the empty bottle of Bell’s by the couch. ‘Nor you either. Bad as each other, always were. That was the trouble.’ She smiled at him. ‘Still, whatever gets you through the night, eh?’
It had become a habit. They dropped the wee man off at her mother’s on a Friday night. Picked him up on Sunday afternoon. A weekend free to do what they wanted and what they wanted was always the same. Whatever he could get off the vice squad, whatever she could nick from her mother’s medicine cabinet, whatever they could get they took. Didn’t need anyone else, just the two of them in the flat all weekend working their way through a carry out and the drugs. Playing records, making love in a sleepy haze, just talking to each other, telling stupid stories. Wasn’t most people’s idea of a great weekend but it suited them, they were happy then.
She wandered over to the mantelpiece, looked at the picture of the three of them on the beach at Arran. They’d got a man who was passing to take the picture. McCoy with his swimmers and a T-shirt on, Angela in a bathing suit, two of them sitting on a tartan rug, baby propped up between them. He was looking up at the camera with a big smile on his wee face. Happy Families. She picked it up and ran her finger over the baby’s face.
‘He looked like you.’ She smiled. ‘Poor wee bugger.’
McCoy went to go over to her but he couldn’t get off the couch. Everything hurt too much. He eased back down onto the cushions, grimaced. ‘Tell you what, you can cheer Gibbs up. Let him know I’m black and blue and pissing blood.’
She put the picture down. ‘Jimmy? Why would he care?’
‘I knew I recognised one of them, just didn’t realise it was him.’
She shook her head. ‘Whoever did that to you, it wasn’t Jimmy. You don’t matter that much, Harry. Always did have an inflated idea of yourself.’
‘Cheers,’ he said, then winced, broken rib was killing him. He reached for the pill bottle on the coffee table.
‘What are they anyway?’ she asked. He held out the bottle and she looked at them dismissively. ‘Amateur hour.’ She sat down and opened her handbag, rifled through it and emerged with a couple of yellow pills, looked like they’d fell a horse. ‘Take one of these, don’t take the other until at least twelve hours after. Okay?’
He nodded and swallowed one over with the last of the Lucozade. ‘Jimmy still sorting you out, is he?’ She didn’t answer, just started putting her coat on. ‘That why you left me, then? He got you better stuff?’ He was trying to provoke her, but she was having none of it.
She bent over, kissed him. ‘Take care of yourself, Harry.’
He held onto her arm, kissed her hand, tried to pull her face to his again, but she slipped out his grasp.
‘Not going to work, Harry.’
‘Come on, Angela, stay for a drink at least, eh?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a good idea, you know that as well as me.’ She finished buttoning her coat. ‘I’ll see you, Harry. You watch out for yourself, eh?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked, but she was gone. Just the smell of perfume and cigarettes left.
He sat there for a while, thinking about Angela and the baby, and Jimmy Gibbs, and who would want to kick fuck out him. He stood up, felt the pill Angela had given him hit and just made it back onto the couch before he was out like a light.
*
He woke up with a desperate need to pee and the sound of the door hammering. He blinked, tried to rub the sleep out his eyes. Clock on the mantelpiece said five o’clock. Had been asleep for four hours or so. He opened the front door and Wattie was standing there, steaming brown paper parcel in his hands. He held it out. ‘Thought you might be hungry.’
They sat at the kitchen table, McCoy wolfing the fish and chips down, suddenly ravenous, realising he hadn’t eaten anything for forty-eight hours. Wattie blabbered on as they ate, filling him in about what had been going on at the shop. As expected, still no luck with the gun. The Super was going spare, had authorised as much overtime as Murray wanted. Papers were going mental, reporters trying to follow polis cars, hanging about outside the stations, offering money to anyone with half a story about Bloody January. Whole thing had got worse since the prison service had released the news about Howie Nairn. No luck with the touts yet, none of them knew anything about Tommy Malone or the girl. He’d spent half the day on the phone to the Aberdeen Police trying to find any sort of connection between Lorna Skirving and the Dunlops, anything that would take them forward.
‘Any good?’ asked McCoy.
‘Weren’t exactly helpful.’
‘What, and you from a wee dump as well?’
Wattie sighed. ‘Fucking Glaswegians. Aberdeen is nothing like Greenock, completely different part of the country.’
‘All the same to me. They’re no Glasgow, the two of them, that’s all that matters.’
‘Thank fuck, far as I’m concerned.’
‘How’d you get on with the records?’ McCoy asked.
‘Waste of time. Lorna Skirving was never in care or in any sort of reform home. Didn’t meet Tommy Malone there.’
‘Must’ve been at Broughton House then,’ said McCoy.
‘Eh?’
‘Girl at Madame Polo’s told me she had a boyfriend, lived in the country.’
Wattie looked at him. ‘And that means he lives in Broughton House, does it? Countryside’s a big place, you know. You don’t think you’re just so determined this has something to do with Dunlop that you’re going to make everything fit that idea?’
‘Not Dunlop. Gibbs. We got any other connections between the two, smart arse?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘Nope. I went to her flat. Nothing there.’
‘What was it like?’ asked McCoy.
‘Remember Christine Nair’s? Like that except scabbier. Some clothes, make-up, magazines, wee radio. Miserable.’
‘Waste of time, then.’
Wattie smiled. ‘Not quite. Luckily for us the neighbour is a right busybody, must spend all her time glued to the spyhole. I chapped on her door and she invited me in. Gave me chapter and verse. Seems Lorna had quite a few gentlemen callers. Including one regular. She described him as’ – he looked at his notebook – ‘not smart, sweary.’ He only came at night, so she never got a proper look at him, close light’s been out for years. Said he tried to kick the door in a few times . . .’
‘Tommy Malone?’
‘Sounds like it could be.’
‘Does that get us anywhere?’
‘Maybe we’re trying too hard. Maybe Tommy was her boyfriend and she dumped him for this countryside guy. He gets wind of it and shoots her. That Beezy girl said he was out of it. Nutty. Maybe he was just going mental because he’d been dumped?’
McCoy pulled Wattie’s half-eaten chips towards him, finished them off.
‘Not just an ugly face, are you, Wattie-boy? All these grand theories and turns out it’s probably just another bloody domestic,’ he said, licking the salt and grease off the chip paper before bundling it up into a ball and lobbing it into the bin.
McCoy shook his head, made his painful way over to the sink and started washing the stink of vinegar off his hands.
‘Think it was the Dunlops?’ asked Wattie, nodding at his
bruises.
‘Doubt it. They’ve enough clout to fuck me over legit. You saw Murray going bananas, all it took was one phone call. Sure I recognised one of them, only saw him for a second but I just can’t get it. Thought it might have been Jimmy Gibbs but apparently not. Want to do me a favour?’
‘What?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy held up his taped-up hand. ‘Help me get my clothes on?’
Half a slow hour later they stepped out of McCoy’s close and onto Gardner Street. They’d managed a pair of jeans, some plimsolls, a jumper, a coat and some scarf he’d got for Christmas from his auntie wrapped round his neck.
‘Sure you’re going to be okay?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Fine. I’m going down to the Victoria for a few, then back to my bed. Just need to get out the house, place is driving me nuts.’ Or at least that’s what he told Wattie.
‘I’d come with you, but I’ve got a football game tonight. Us against Finnieston . . .’
‘Can’t miss that. Away ye go.’
‘You sure?’
‘Aye, beat it. I’ll get a cab back up the hill, don’t think I’ll make it otherwise. I’ll see you in the morning.’
A middle-aged woman came out the neighbouring close, pulling a pair of woollen gloves on. ‘Thanks for helping me put my clothes back on, Wattie,’ said McCoy loudly. She turned and gave them a look, hurried up the hill.
‘Half battered and still trying to be the funny prick. I’ll pick you up at eight.’
TWENTY-TWO
McCoy was still smiling to himself as he walked down Gardner Street. Was beginning to feel normal again, despite the bruises and pains. The bells were going at St Peter’s in the next road, six o’clock mass. Sounded quieter than usual, snow muffling the sound. That explained the old couples trying to hurry up the hill. He was taking it easy, walking slowly, keeping to the inside of the pavement in case he needed to lean on the tenement walls for a bit. Didn’t want to slip and bash himself off the pavement. He could feel wet coming in through his plimsolls, remembered now why he never wore them. Hole in the sole.
He was halfway down the hill when he noticed the two lads. Both of them were tall. One was skinny, flash looking, all the good gear on, while the other one was just plain massive. He was wearing old jeans and a shirt in the cold, didn’t seem to bother him.
They were waiting a few closes down, pulling on fags, looking up the hill at him, pretending they weren’t. His heart sank. Looked like they were back to finish what they’d started. He looked up and down the street. No one. Just him and the two of them, last of the stragglers already in St Peter’s. Snow was heavy now, wouldn’t even be anyone walking their dog or heading to the chippie.
He wasn’t up for this, wasn’t even supposed to be out of hospital, no way he could defend himself against this pair. They pushed off the tenement wall and wandered up towards him. He swore under his breath. Wasn’t any real point in trying to get away, state he was in they’d catch him in two seconds. He stood there waiting for the inevitable, hoping he would pass out quickly.
They approached and stood side by side in front of him, blocking the pavement. The big one smiled at him like he was evil or mental or both. Kept opening and closing his meaty fists. C.O.D.Y. tattooed across the fingers of both in blue ink. The other one was checking up and down the street, making sure no one was around. McCoy thought of crying out, shouting for help, but there was no point, no one was going to hear him.
‘McCoy,’ the flash one said.
He nodded, didn’t seem much point in denying it. The big one leant forward, peered at his black eye. ‘That looks sore,’ he said. ‘What happened?’ And then he giggled. Sounded more like a five-year-old than a sixteen-stone brick shithouse.
‘Shut it, Jumbo,’ said the flash one. ‘Behave yourself.’
McCoy wasn’t really listening, was just waiting for Jumbo to throw the first punch, wondering if he could take another doing.
‘We didnae mean it.’ The flash one was looking at the ground, sheepish. ‘Honest. Wouldnae have done it if we’d known it was Stevie Cooper’s place. No way.’
And then it dawned. The Ben Duncan. Stevie Cooper’s book. Dirty Ally. McCoy felt the tension leave him. Almost felt like crying with relief.
‘Got any fags?’ he asked.
The flash one nodded, took a packet of Kensitas out the pocket of his leather bomber jacket. He leant in close to light the cigarette and McCoy realised that he was only seventeen, eighteen, lighter shaking in his hands. C.O.D.Y. on his knuckles as well.
‘What’s your name anyway?’ he asked.
‘Billy. Billy Leeson,’ he said, pushing his wet hair away from his face.
‘Jumbo,’ said the other one and pointed at his chest. ‘Jumbo.’
‘Shut it, Jumbo,’ said Leeson automatically. Jumbo did as he was told. Shut up and kept smiling. Leeson reached into his pocket again and handed McCoy an envelope. Inside was a wee hardback notebook and what looked like a couple of hundred quid.
‘Ten quid’s missing,’ he said. ‘Tell Mr Cooper we’re really sorry, we’ll get it for him next week. We spent it before we knew; just havenae got it the now. We’ll get it, though. Honest.’
Jumbo was listening closely, nodding. ‘Honest,’ he added.
McCoy put the packet in his coat pocket, shook his head. ‘You know how lucky you two are? You found me before Cooper found you. If I was you, I’d get that tenner back to him soon as.’ They nodded, stood there looking at him. ‘Well, you better fuck off and get it from somewhere then, hadn’t you?’
McCoy watched them hurry down the street, big one’s sandshoes slapping off the pavement. His whole body was starting to hurt again, ribs and kidneys especially. He took out one of the codeine tablets from the hospital and swallowed it over dry. He needed a drink.
*
He thought he’d missed her. Knew Murray would go ballistic if he heard he was up and in the shop, so he waited a few closes up the street. Chances were Wattie was right, Lorna Skirving was just a domestic writ large. He’d speak to Murray in the morning, maybe scale things down, didn’t seem much point in doing anything else. He was just about to head for home when she came out with Cowie. They talked for a minute then Cowie waved bye and got into his car. She looked up at the sky, put her umbrella up and walked up the street towards him. He stepped out the close and she saw him. Smiled. Then looked horrified.
‘My God. Are you all right? I heard you’d been attacked.’
He nodded. The brave soldier. ‘I’ll live.’
‘Christ, I feel terrible now. I spent half last night telling Alasdair and Jackie how rude you were for not turning up. Sure you’re okay? You look horrible.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Shit! Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘That’s okay. I do look horrible. Fancy a drink?’
‘Yes. Great. And no, you don’t.’
He pointed up the road. ‘There’s a pub up there. The Grove? Supposed to be a bit grotty, though.’
‘They took me to the Sarry Heid the first week I moved here. Nothing could be worse than that.’
The Grove was a bit grotty, a proper old man’s bar. Susan was the only woman in there but she didn’t seem to mind, seemed to quite enjoy the grumbles and dirty looks from the old codgers. They sat down at a table at the back and she took her combat jacket off, shook the snow out her hair. She’d some sort of Victorian-looking blouse on, all lacy and wee buttons up to her neck.
McCoy took a sip of his pint, suddenly didn’t know how to start. ‘So you’re a feminist, then?’ he asked and immediately realised that wasn’t it.
‘Guilty as charged,’ she said, smiling.
‘What is that exactly?’
She looked at him, dawned on her he wasn’t actually joking. ‘Simple. Means I believe in equal rights for men and women, equal pay, equal opportunities. We need to redress the balance after centuries of aggressive patriarchy.’
He let the last bit go, he’d
got the jist. ‘Fair enough. Doesn’t sound too bad. Can’t really happen, though. Can it?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Take the polis. In the real world a woman can’t do the job properly, just can’t. Not strong enough. Not much use breaking up a fight or chasing after someone.’
‘Okay, so in your equation all a police officer really needs is brute force and strength, not guile or intelligence, anything like that. That’s how the police are selected, is it?’
‘Pretty much, aye.’
She laughed. ‘At least you’re honest. I interviewed a few cops for my dissertation, wasn’t a great experience. God save us from the Glasgow Police Force.’
‘What? Like me?’
‘Maybe you’re different. We’ll see.’
He jiggled his empty glass at her. ‘Another?’
She nodded and he went to the bar. Sneaked a look back at her while he was waiting for the pints. She had a wee mirror out, was flicking at her hair. Maybe he was in with a chance after all.
He put the drinks down, offered her a cigarette. She shook her head, took out her wee tin with the roll-ups.
‘I can’t make them,’ he said. ‘Too fiddly.’
She ran the shiny edge of the paper along her lip, started rolling. ‘It’s not that hard, just takes a bit of practice.’
‘And hands that aren’t like bunches of bananas. How long you been up here in Glasgow?’ he asked.
She thought. ‘Since beginning of October.’
‘You like it?’
She looked at him, smiled. ‘You’re not one of these easily offended types, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Good. In that case, not much. Too dark, too cold, too rainy.’
He feigned a look of total horror. ‘You’re telling me you don’t like Glasgow?’
‘You’ll get over it . . . Shit!’ She slapped her forehead and pulled a folded bit of paper out the front pocket of her jeans. ‘Got an address for you. Baby Strange. That woman I was telling you about.’