by Alan Parks
He turned, smiled. ‘You know something? You can see it in their faces, see the exact moment they give up. It’s like a kind of hope goes, a light goes out in their eyes.’
‘Give up what?’ asked McCoy.
‘Give up thinking the pain’s worth it. Elsa finally realised she wasn’t going to be Mrs Dunlop and that it wasn’t ever going to stop and I saw it in her face. So she . . .’
‘She what?’
‘So she wasn’t any fun any more.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
The wind was getting stronger, gusting hard, blowing the snow against the chimneys and against them. Dunlop turned his collar up, stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Don’t be so disgusted. The pursuit of fun is a big thing in our family.’
‘What does that mean?’ McCoy asked.
He took out his cigarettes again but the wind was too strong now, even for his Zippo. He tried a few times, then gave up and threw it over the edge.
‘I was sixteen. That was the first time my father brought a girl, a prostitute, into the equation. Fun for all. And do you know what happens after a while, when you and your father have sex with a prostitute?’
Dunlop turned, looked at him. McCoy shook his head.
‘You get bored. Inured. Jaded. What my father thought was some sort of holy transgression you see as just another night. So you start to look further abroad, for that thing, that experience that’s something more. That really is fun.’
He slipped his hand round the handle of the sword, lifted it up, pointed the tip out into the dark, to the city below.
‘I grew up in that world down there, but there’s nothing left for me here now. Only one more person to be delivered and then I’m done.’ He turned to McCoy and grinned. ‘Looks like fate has given me exactly what I need.’
McCoy started backing away. Knew it was useless. He didn’t have a chance up here against Dunlop; he was younger, at least as strong. If he could get downstairs again then maybe, but not up here, up here he didn’t have a hope. A slate slid out from under his foot and they watched it tumble down the roof, over the side and into the darkness.
Dunlop stood up, brushed himself off and smiled. ‘Come on, McCoy, that’s not going to work, is it? Back over here, if you please.’ He raised the sword. ‘Now.’
McCoy swore under his breath. ‘You don’t have to do that, Dunlop.’
‘On the contrary, I do. I very much do.’
‘Why? You’ll not get away. Patrol cars are on the way, I called them from downstairs.’ Realised how desperate he sounded, how useless.
Dunlop looked off over the side. ‘As if I care about that.’ He raised the sword, pushed the tip against McCoy’s shirt. The skin broke, a bloom of red blood appeared on the white cotton. McCoy breathed, waited. Wasn’t sure why but his mind drifted back to Arran. To that day with Angela and Bobby, the day they got the man to take the picture of them on the rug. To being happy.
‘You’re going to help me, Mr McCoy. I’m off to pastures new.’
McCoy started backing away, knew he had no chance. Knew he had to try. He took another step back, was trying not to slip when Dunlop suddenly flipped the sword in the air and caught the tip of it in his hand. He smiled, held the handle end out to McCoy.
‘Take it.’
McCoy shook his head.
‘Take it.’
Dunlop was holding the sword at arm’s length, blood seeping through his fingers as gripped the blade, the handle only six inches or so from McCoy’s face.
He took it in his shaking hand and Dunlop leant forward, pushed his chest onto the tip of the sword.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Now, Mr McCoy, do it now.’
McCoy adjusted his grip, got the sword firm in his hand, held it for a few seconds.
Dunlop whispered. ‘Do it.’
He thought of Elsa dead in the bath, Cooper’s life draining away downstairs. Tommy Malone. Lorna Skirving. All the damage Dunlop and his father had done. Dunlop was pushing himself forward; McCoy felt the pressure give and an inch or so of the blade disappeared into Dunlop’s chest.
‘Do it.’
He could end it all.
‘Now, McCoy.’
But without Teddy he didn’t have Dunlop Senior. And he was as guilty as Teddy was. He wanted them both. Both alive. Both on the stand. Both guilty. He dropped the sword.
Dunlop shook his head. ‘Don’t have it in you. I should have known.’
Before McCoy knew what was happening Dunlop was running down the roof at full tilt, slipping and sliding on the snowy tiles until he reached the edge and disappeared into the darkness.
He heard it before he could make it to the edge of the roof. The whump as his body hit. He scrambled and slid down to the edge, grabbed onto a big TV aerial and peered over. Dunlop had landed on the road just outside the front entrance of the Bon Accord Hotel. His body was splayed on the ground, arms and legs at impossible angles, blood already starting to spread out beneath him into the snow. Two men were running towards the body, looking up, trying to work out what had happened. More people appeared, a ring formed round the body. A man came out the hotel with a blanket. He heard the distant sound of sirens, looked up, could see the flashing lights of the ambulance and the pandas coming down Woodlands Road. A patrol car stopped beside the body and Wattie and Murray got out. Ambulance men rushed into the house with a stretcher.
McCoy looked up at the heavy sky and watched the flakes spiralling down. Wind was up too, clouds scudding across the sky. He started shivering, not sure if it was the wet clothes clinging to him or what had just happened. Either way it was time to get back inside, to get in out of the cold.
20th January 1973
FORTY-TWO
The Royal was Glasgow’s biggest and oldest hospital, huge black building on the High Street, original red sandstone obliterated by years of soot and dirt. Ward 12 was at the back, took McCoy a while to find it. Knew he was there when he saw Billy Weir standing at the doors smoking. He nodded as he approached.
‘How’s the patient then?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Doc says he’ll be fine. Just needs to be in here for a couple of weeks, keep as still as he can.’
‘Bet he’s enjoying that?’
‘Oh aye, effing and blinding non-stop. Most of the nurses have already refused to go near him.’
McCoy held up a copy of the Daily Record and a brown paper bag of grapes. ‘Wish me luck.’
He heard him as soon as he pushed the door open. Couldn’t really work out what he was on about but heard the words ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’ enough to know he wasn’t happy. A nurse pushed past him, heading for the door, hands up to her face, tears in her eyes.
He pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. Cooper was lying face down, encased in heavy bandages from his shoulders to his waist, face turned to the side, squashed into the pillow.
‘Fuck you laughing at?’ he asked.
McCoy held his hands up. ‘Me? Nothing. How you doing?’
‘Me? Fucking great. How d’you think? Stuck here for another two weeks, cannae bloody move, nurses having to wipe my arse for me. It’s fucking great.’
‘Come on, at least you’re going to be okay. Was touch and go for a while, you lost a lot of blood.’
‘Aye, so I hear. That cunt really dead?’
McCoy nodded. ‘Splattered all over the pavement.’
‘And you’re getting a medal for it?’
‘Yep. Thought he was going to kill me. Amazing the strength you get when you’re that scared. Just went for him, knocked the sword out his hand and managed to get him over the side before he got me. Back in the good books. Murray’s golden boy again.’
‘Glad to hear it; be easier for you to sort that cunt Naismith out. I need that doing, hear me?’ He winced, wasn’t supposed to even be talking, never mind threatening.
‘I hear you.’ McCoy put the grapes down on the wee bedside cabinet and opened the paper. ‘Football?’
&n
bsp; Cooper nodded, sweat on his forehead. Sixty-seven stitches, major muscle damage in his back. He wasn’t going to be the man he’d been, but McCoy wasn’t going to tell him that. He started reading the football reports, was only five minutes or so in when he realised Cooper was asleep. Not surprising given the bottles of painkillers lined up on the cabinet. He shoved a couple of grapes in his mouth and opened the paper, looking for the TV page. He stopped chewing when he saw the headline. Wasn’t big, halfway down a page. LORD DUNLOP – NEW TRAGEDY.
He scanned it. Drowning accident . . . victim Jimmy Gibbs, 34 . . . found by housekeeper.
He shut the paper. They really didn’t fuck about, the rich. Just did what they had to do to protect themselves, no matter what it was.
Cooper was snoring now, scarred hands lying on the blue blanket. Whatever Cooper was, he was amateur hour compared to Lord Dunlop. Son not even buried yet and he’d still made sure Jimmy Gibbs wasn’t going to be talking to the polis or the press. Or anyone.
People like Dunlop Senior didn’t end up with scars all over their hands, sword wounds on their back, lying in a dingy ward of a public hospital. Not them. They moved through the world untouched, no matter what they’d done. For people like Gray Dunlop, deciding to get rid of Jimmy Gibbs was like deciding to wear the red tie today instead of the blue. A decision easily taken and as easily forgotten.
Outside, the snow was gently falling, covering Glasgow in a fresh white layer, hiding the dirt beneath. McCoy started walking down towards town. He passed the cathedral, group of wee kids standing in a line outside, waiting for the tour.
He’d been signed off for three weeks on the condition he went to see the shrink. Compulsory. Mood he was in maybe he’d tell her why he really hated the sight of blood so much. He stopped, lit a cigarette and watched them file in, one by one. Looked about seven or eight, same age as he’d been when it happened. He looked up at the falling snow, felt it fall on his face. Then again, maybe some things were better off staying secret.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Stephen Fox, Derek MacKillop, Sarah Pinsborough, Debs Warner, Tom Witcomb and all at Blake Friedmann, Francis Bickmore and all at Canongate. And to John Niven, without whom . . .
One deliberate historical error: the David Bowie concert at Green’s Playhouse actually took place on 5th January, not the 7th, as it is in the book. The rest are accidental.