Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  ‘Nightmares about Cavendish?’ asked Wattie, smiling.

  ‘Something like that. What you doing here?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep either, better off here, see how they do things like this, see what I can learn.’

  ‘Thought I was supposed to be teaching you?’

  ‘You are. Just that sometimes you don’t explain things very much.’

  Was a fair point. ‘You trying to make me feel guilty?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Don’t think I could do that if I tried.’

  ‘Too right you couldn’t. Stick by Murray, he’s the only one who knows what he’s doing. Don’t let any of the uniforms take the piss. This is your scene, they do what you want.’

  Wattie saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Murray say anything else about Cavendish?’

  ‘Not much. Just told me to keep my head down, that it would blow over.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  Wattie looked sheepish. ‘Told me not to pick up any of your bad habits. Don’t fraternise with the enemy, don’t drink on duty, don’t get stuck on one path, keep the options open.’

  ‘Not bad advice, might try following it myself.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets, walked off, heading for the gate.

  He sat by the fire when he got in, didn’t put the lights on, just let the orange bars light up the room. He kept sipping at the half bottle; tasted rotten but it was working. He found his wee red jotter on the mantelpiece, the one he’d bought when all this started. Seemed a long time ago now. He opened it up. Picture of Lorna Skirving from the paper with a big question mark beside it. List underneath: Worker? Punter? Boyfriend? Hired? Next page, Howie Nairn: How connected to the girl?

  He sat down, leant against the wall. Looked at her picture again. ‘Howie Nairn. How connected to the girl.’ He sat there for a while, sipping the whisky, watching the passing headlights stretch the shadows of the furniture across the wall. By the time the sun had started to turn the sky a bluish pink he’d worked out what he had to do. He got up, ran his head under the kitchen tap, suffered the cold to wake him up. He put his coat on, shut the front door behind him and walked down to Dumbarton Road to find a taxi.

  10th January 1973

  THIRTY-FOUR

  McCoy stepped off the train and joined the crowd shuffling towards the inspectors. He gave his ticket over and turned his coat collar up. Dundee was so cold it made Glasgow seem tropical. Icy sleet was coming down sideways, heavy grey sky sitting just above the roofs of the town. The station was opposite the Tay; river was as grey as the sky, moving slowly, branches and twigs floating past. He’d only been here once before, hoped he’d never have to come again. He’d interviewed a bloke the Dundee boys had in custody for sexual assault, Murray sure he was responsible for two rapes in Glasgow. Turned out the bloke was friendlier than the Dundee polis were. Not too keen on Glaswegians up here as a rule.

  There was a wee cafe just across the road, steamed-up windows and a Fisher and Donaldson Served Here sign. He waited for a couple of buses to pass, crossed the street and went in. Place was warm and crowded, customers and staff joking with each other. He ordered a tea and a bacon roll, found a quiet corner. He’d stopped at the R. S. McColl’s in the station and bought a paper and a brown hardback envelope. He slipped the picture out his pocket, tried to look at it without anyone seeing it. Cowie still there in his towel, Lord Dunlop in a loosely belted dressing gown, Dunlop Junior beside him, hand rubbing his dick through the towel round his waist, all of them staring at Lorna Skirving pushing a dildo up the other girl’s arse. Father and son, pillars of the community. Should be enough. He put it in the envelope and sealed it, wrote Mr James Forfar in big letters across it and to be opened by the addressee only across the back. He downed the last of his tea and made his way over to a group of painters in splattered white overalls sitting near the counter.

  ‘Any of you boys know where Forfar Publishing is?’

  Had to get the bloke to tell him a few times before he got it, thick Dundee accent more than he could decipher. Turned out it wasn’t too far.

  Dundee on a sleety January morning. Had to be more miserable places, he just couldn’t think of any. Forfar Publishing turned out to be a large Victorian building, red sandstone, looked like a town hall or a library. A uniformed concierge pulled the door open for him and he walked into a marble-lined hall. There was a wreath of poppies lying on the floor beneath a memorial for the Forfar workers killed in the two world wars. He scanned the names; not a single Irish or Catholic one amongst them. Wasn’t only unions Forfar didn’t like. The woman behind the desk peered at him over half-moon glasses as he approached.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He smiled his best smile. ‘I hope so,’ he said, holding up the envelope. ‘Just come from Glasgow on the train. Urgent delivery for Mr Forfar, has to be opened by him personally.’

  The woman took it. ‘I’ll see he gets it.’

  ‘Thanks very much. Apparently he has to see it as soon as possible.’ He tried to look as gormless as possible. ‘Something to do with a merger?’

  ‘Ah, you should have said.’ She reached for the phone and McCoy mouthed ‘Thank you’ and left her to it.

  Couple of hours later his train rumbled into Queen Street Station. He rubbed his eyes; he’d been in and out of sleep the whole journey, making up for last night. People were standing up, getting their luggage off the racks, putting on coats and scarves. It was done now, no going back. Picture should be enough to make the Wee Free stick choke on his morning tea. Have another think about his merger with the upstanding Dunlops. He yawned, stood up, started shuffling along the train corridor. Hitting the Dunlops financially was all he could do now, getting them on Lorna Skirving or Tommy Malone or Isabel Garvey was never going to happen. Even if the photo managed to torpedo the merger, it wasn’t going to bring them down. What it would do was cause them a fair bit of trouble and a good bit of money and that was enough. For now.

  He got off the train, glad to be back in sooty, grimy Glasgow, and made his way through the station to the rank at Queen Street. Didn’t have to wait long. He opened the back door.

  ‘Where you off to, pal?’

  ‘Memen Street,’ he said. One down. One to go.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Same three lads with the leather coats, same wee girl taking the message to Stevie, same trudge over what was left of the gardens in Memen Street. Same climb up the frozen close. McCoy rapped on the door, glad he couldn’t hear anyone getting battered this time. Maybe he was in time to stop it.

  Billy Weir only opened the door a crack this time, looked worried. ‘Bad time, McCoy. Come back later, eh?’

  ‘I need to speak to him, Billy. Now.’

  ‘Aye well, he’s busy.’

  Standing there arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere so he booted the door as hard as he could. Billy went flying, the door bashed off the inside wall and he was in. Billy was up quick, shouting the odds, exactly what he’d hoped for. The door to the room opposite was wrenched open and Cooper was standing there. Shirt off, greasy quiff hanging over his eyes, hammer in his hand.

  ‘Fuck’s going on here?’ he asked, glowering at Billy.

  ‘Cunt bashed his way in, couldnae stop him,’ said Billy, looking furious. ‘Sorry, boss.’

  Cooper was breathing heavy like he’d been running, fine spray of blood across his nose and mouth. ‘If you’re so fucking desperate to see me, McCoy, come on in.’

  He held the door wide. McCoy could hear crying, could see blood on the wooden floor, footprints walked through it. That room was the last place he wanted to go. Didn’t have a choice. He stepped past Billy, went in and Cooper shut the door behind him.

  He was too late. One of Jumbo’s sandshoes was off; foot a pulpy mess of broken toes and blood. He was lying facing the wall curled up, crying, crying like a child who’d lost his mum. He turned his head round, broken nose splattered over his face, slash down his left cheek, wound gaping. McCoy’s stomach turne
d and he looked away quickly.

  Cooper stuck a rolled-up note deep into the pile of speed on the mantelpiece and took a huge snort, grimaced, wiped at his nose and took a swig from one of the screwtops lined up beside the mound of powder. ‘You want one?’ he asked, holding out a bottle. McCoy nodded, took it.

  Cooper watched him, mimed McCoy’s shaky hands. ‘What’s up wi’ you?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Nothing. You know me, bit squeamish.’ He nodded over at Jumbo. ‘You finished?’

  Cooper snorted. ‘Not by a long shot. Why? What’s it to you?’

  ‘Come on, Stevie, leave him, eh? He’s just a daft boy, didnae know what he was doing, hasnae the sense. He’s had enough of a doing, eh?’

  ‘That’s for me to decide. My business.’

  McCoy held his hands up. ‘Fair point, fair point. I’m no telling you what to do, Stevie, just asking a favour.’

  Cooper put the bottle down, looked at him, eyes narrowing. ‘What is all this anyway?’

  McCoy tried a smile. ‘Let’s just call it a guilty conscience, eh? I didn’t think you’d be so heavy on the two lads.’

  Cooper didn’t smile back. He walked over to Jumbo, grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled him round. He was whimpering, trying to roll up in a ball, trying to get away. Cooper kicked him square in the stomach and he lurched forward and threw up a dribble of watery sick. McCoy looked away again.

  ‘McCoy,’ Cooper shouted. ‘I’m over here. Get your eyes off the fucking floor and look at me!’

  He tried to breathe slowly and looked up. Cooper was standing over Jumbo now, hammer in hand. ‘You no too keen on the rough stuff, eh? No want to get your hands dirty.’ He sat down hard on Jumbo, who let out another whimper. ‘Two cunts take the piss out of me and they get what’s coming, that way everyone knows who’s the boss. Simple stuff, McCoy.’ He was twirling the hammer round in his fingers. Stopped it with the handle pointing at McCoy.

  ‘Want a go?’

  McCoy shook his head.

  ‘Tough.’

  Cooper put the hammer down and grabbed Jumbo’s wrist, forced his hand flat onto the floor, fat fingers spread out. C.O.D.Y. He was whimpering and crying, squirming under him, trying to get his arm free.

  ‘Do it and I’ll think about letting him go.’

  ‘Fuck sake, Stevie, you must be joking.’

  He looked at him, at the look in his eyes, knew he wasn’t. Didn’t know what kind of game he was playing but he didn’t see what else he could do. If he walked out, Jumbo would be dead in a couple of hours anyway. He walked over and picked up the hammer.

  ‘No fucking about,’ said Cooper. ‘Do it like you mean it.’

  He knelt down beside them, lifted the hammer up, tried not to think about what he was about to do, and hit Jumbo’s hand with as much force as he could. The noise was horrible, a scream of real agony. He felt his stomach turn, knew he couldn’t be sick. Not now.

  Cooper grinned at him. ‘Good man.’

  McCoy dropped the hammer and walked over to the window, pushed it open and breathed in the sharp cold air. Ignored the screams as long as he could. Turned round just as Cooper got off Jumbo. McCoy’s stomach lurched as Jumbo raised his hand and half his forefinger was left behind, flattened into the wooden floor.

  He took his beer off the mantelpiece, drank half of it in one go. Cooper came over, familiar rolling stride, slapped him on the back.

  ‘Didnae think you had it in you.’

  ‘You going to let him go now?’

  He smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘You cunt, Cooper, you said—’

  ‘What I said was that I’d think about it, and that’s what I’m doing. C’mon.’

  He walked out the room and McCoy followed, didn’t want to look back at Jumbo, at what he’d done. The noises coming from him were bad enough.

  ‘Out,’ said Cooper, as they walked into the kitchen. Billy and the girl looked up. They were sitting at the table working on a huge mound of yellowish speed, folded paper wraps lined up, ready to be filled. Was so much of it McCoy could taste it in the air, metallic, chalky. They shuffled past them, Billy still not looking happy.

  Cooper pointed to the speed on the table. ‘See this? Waste of fucking time. Cannae sell it for more than a couple of quid a gram. Fucking kids at the dancing, that’s it. No repeat business. But this . . .’ He dug into his jeans pocket, pulled out a tiny wee plastic bag half full of gummy brown powder. ‘This is different. Things are changing, McCoy, changing very fast, and I’m going to be riding the wave. New connections, new ways of doing things, making money. Smack’s only a part of it, I’ve been expanding my contacts.’

  ‘You been giving it to Janey?’

  ‘Janey? Aye, she cannae get enough of it, sort of a guinea pig, see how much we need to cut it. Why?’

  ‘She gone, disappeared. Iris doesn’t know where she is.’

  ‘Hang on, you’re no still fucking her, are ye?’ He shook his head. ‘I telt you before, McCoy, she’s just another whoor. Smacked-out whoor now, good for nothing. No getting your fucking hole, that it?’ He walked over to the door. Shouted. ‘Helen! C’mere, hen.’

  The girl came back through and Cooper grabbed her by the hair, forced her down onto her knees. ‘Want her to suck you off? She’ll do it now, do anything I tell her.’ He twisted her round to face him. ‘That right, hen? You’ll do anything I say,’ he said.

  She nodded, was sobbing, make-up starting to run. Cooper laughed and let her go. She crawled over, grabbed onto McCoy’s belt, tried to undo it. He stepped back, shook his head.

  ‘No fancy it, eh, McCoy?’

  He shook his head again, was pressed back against the kitchen wall trying to get away from the crying girl. Cooper grabbed her, told her to fuck off. She started to say something and he slapped her across the face. ‘Move it, I said!’

  She scrambled out the room and Cooper sat down at the kitchen table. McCoy wasn’t sure if it was just the speed, but he looked half mad. Paranoid. He spoke quietly, slowly.

  ‘Need to know you’re with me, McCoy. If you’re not, you’ve got one chance. Walk away.’

  ‘C’mon, Cooper, it’s been a long time. I just wondered what happened to . . .’

  Cooper looked at him. Face splattered with Jumbo’s blood, eyes black and dilated, fist opening and closing. ‘Yes or no?’ he said.

  What was he going to say? So he said it. ‘Aye, I’m with you.’

  Cooper leant back in the chair, face slack with relief, and McCoy suddenly realised Cooper was as lost as everyone else. No family, always on the lookout for the polis or whichever villain was next to have a go, no proper girlfriend. No one round him except people whose wages he was paying. Only person he really had, the only person he had any connection with, was him. He sat down at the table.

  ‘I’m here, Cooper. Have been since we were wee boys, eh?’

  Cooper nodded.

  ‘But you know what, pal, you’re taking too much of that stuff.’ He nodded at the pile of speed. ‘It’s no helping you, eh? Making you mental. Well, more mental.’

  Cooper smiled. ‘Cheeky cunt. Like I need your fucking advice. Wasnae for me you’d still be eating that fucking dinner in the home.’ He took the wee bag of smack out again. ‘You gonnae listen this time?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Where’d you get it anyway? Thought it only turned up once in a while, tiny wee amounts.’

  Cooper brightened, sat up. ‘Not any more. Billy Chan was back in Hong Kong a couple of months ago, set up a regular supply. Started coming in last month. He’s offering it to me and Ronnie Naismith. And there’s the problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only make real money if you control the whole supply and that’s what I’m going to do. Going to end up ugly, though, and that’s where you and your fat pal next door come in.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Murray. Been in Naismith’s pocket for years. He goes easy on him. That needs to stop.’

  McCoy looke
d at him like he was mad. ‘Murray? You’re taking the piss, aren’t you? He’s as straight as they come.’

  ‘That right, is it? Big house in Bearsden, three boys at posh school. How do you think he pays for that on his salary?’

  ‘He comes from money, from down in the Borders, Hawick.’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘Fucking polis, thick as shit, the lot of you. All that rugby shite’s pulled the wool over your eyes. Think his dad was some fucking doctor in Hawick or something? His dad was a fucking farm labourer, he got a sports scholarship. Give me a fucking break. He’s had his nose in the trough for years, same as all the rest of them.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘No fucking way, someone’s been telling you porkies. I’ve worked for him for years, he’s as straight as they come.’

  ‘Cannae fucking tell you anything. Okay, suit yourself. I still need Naismith out the picture, need his protection shut down, need him put away for a few months until I get it all sorted out. You fix that and I’ll let that fat cunt next door go.’

  ‘How can I sort something out that doesnae exist?’

  Cooper just held his hand out. ‘Deal?’

  McCoy shook. At least it’d get Jumbo out of there. He’d worry about the rest later.

  *

  McCoy was leaning into the back of the car, door open. ‘Listen to me, Jumbo. Right? Billy here’s going to take you to the Royal, to A&E. You go in there, tell them you got attacked in the street, didn’t see who did it. Right?’

  Jumbo nodded, was looking at him intently. Ready to do anything his saviour asked.

  ‘You got anywhere you can go after that? Aunties? Uncles? You need to get out of here for a while.’

  He nodded again. ‘Auntie Peggy. She lives by the seaside in . . .’ He strained, trying to think. ‘Girvan.’

  ‘Fine. You get out the hospital – say nothing, remember – then you go to Central Station and you get a ticket for Girvan. Here . . .’ He dug in his top pocket, took out the money Cooper had given him the other day. ‘You give your auntie half of this, tell her you need to stay for a few months.’