As they loaded in the gear, Connor heard that Nirvana ringtone and felt his stomach tighten. He’d put all that Nick stuff to the back of his mind in St Andrews, now here was tinny little Kurt Cobain riffing away like a maniac in his pocket. Shit, shit, shit.
He glanced into the van and saw the kitbag in a pile of stuff in the corner. He’d decided to bring it as his main bag, using his clothes to cover up the packages inside. The only other thing in there was a copy of the James Macpherson collection of Ossian’s epic poetry, which Connor had bought a couple of years back and never got through. He’d first heard about Ossian a few years ago at an art exhibition full of strange, moody collages about the myth, and he’d become kind of besotted with the idea. When he finally managed to track down a copy of the book, he discovered he was more in love with the story of Ossian than the actual poetry. To be honest, he couldn’t make head nor tail of the flowery, overblown language. He’d brought the book in a final attempt to get to grips with it, at least that’s what he told himself, but he knew it wasn’t even going to get opened in the next fortnight.
A farty drumkit sound had kicked in on the ringtone as he took the phone from his pocket and moved away from the van. It said
‘Jim’ on the screen. He answered it.
‘Connor?’ The voice was relaxed and surprisingly well spoken.
‘Yeah.’
‘Jim here. I believe you’re expecting my call?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve got something for me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you say anything except yeah?’
‘If there’s something worth saying.’
‘Fair enough. Where are you?’
‘Drouthy’s. You know it?’
‘Meet me at the Discovery in half an hour.’
‘The ship?’
‘Of course the ship. You think there are two Discoveries?’
‘Just checking.’
‘You know where it is?’
‘Think so. We came past it on the way in.’
‘Good. So, half an hour?’
‘What if I’m in the middle of something?’
‘Are you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well. See you then. And don’t forget the package.’
‘I’m not a fucking idiot.’
‘I don’t know that, do I?’
‘Wait. How will I know you?’
‘You think I’ll have a carnation in my buttonhole? Maybe I’ll be carrying a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times?’
‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’
‘I’ll be the one hanging around in the freezing cold, looking as if he’s waiting for someone to arrive with a package for him.’
‘Right.’
He put the phone away. The rest of them were coming and going, loading stuff in from the van. This was doing his head in, having to sneak around and think of excuses to disappear. He waited until it was just him and Danny at the van then announced that he was nipping along the road for fags. He waited for Danny to lug his kick drum inside, shouldered the kitbag and headed down the road to look for a taxi.
After a few minutes no cabs had passed, so he resigned himself to hoofing it. He knew roughly which direction to head and, as he walked, he rehearsed in his mind what he would say. What did people say at drug deals? Was there an etiquette involved? A set of social rules he knew nothing about? This guy Jim had seemed all right on the phone, but what if he turned out to be an arsehole or a psycho? What if he wanted to open the package, or if he didn’t have anything to give Connor in return? As he walked down Perth Road then Nethergate the pavement got busier, mostly with students. It was dark already, and Connor kept turning round and looking behind nervously. What if someone was following him? What about that figure he’d seen in St Andrews at the cathedral? Could Drug Enforcement or the police or whoever it was really be following him? If so, would they pounce as soon as he met Jim, or wait and nick him later? Jesus, his heart couldn’t take all this. He still had some gin left in the plastic bottle, and he slugged it as he went. He stepped out to cross the road at the bottom of Nethergate and a sleek blue Beamer swerved to avoid him. What kind of cars did undercover cops drive? Surely nothing as flash as a BMW.
By the time he reached Discovery Point he was sweating despite the cold. A thin rain had started and the temperature must’ve been kicking around freezing. Teatime on a Tuesday in December wasn’t exactly prime tourist season, and the Discovery was deserted, both the ship and the rotund visitor centre alongside. Connor was impressed by the size of the ship, its triangulation of masts and ornate tangle of rigging. At the other side of the closed visitor centre was a small car park with a few shiny executive cars in it. Standing in the shadows of the visitor centre was a short, round figure smoking a cigarette. Connor approached him, and as he got closer he saw the man was smartly dressed in an expensive leather jacket, dress trousers and leather shoes. He was middle-aged, with a friendly face, thinning white hair and chubby fingers.
‘Jim?’
‘Hello, Connor,’ said the man, switching the fag to his left hand and holding his right hand out. Connor shook it. ‘Can you believe they took this thing to the Antarctic?’ he said, pointing his cigarette at the ship.
‘When was that?’
‘Hundred years ago. Must’ve been bloody freezing.’ He crushed the fag end under his shoe. ‘The package?’
Connor unzipped the bag and rummaged around inside, pulling out the correct parcel on the second attempt and handing it over. Jim briefly checked that it had his name on it, then put it in a holdall by his feet.
‘Nick said you’d have something in return,’ said Connor.
‘What’s he got on you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What’s he got on you? You don’t exactly look like this is your usual line of work, so I’m assuming that he’s got something over you, making you do this.’
‘That would be about right. Now, you have something for Nick, yeah?’
Jim looked at him, then slowly removed a thick brown envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over. It was obviously money, thought Connor, as he stuck it in his bag, but how much? And for what, exactly? He decided to ask.
‘What have we just given each other?’
‘Come on. I think it’s best that you don’t know.’
‘You’re probably right. Can I ask you something?’
‘You can ask.’
‘How did you get into this? You don’t exactly look like the drug-dealer type.’
‘Who mentioned drugs?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You think I should be a greasy little working-class smackhead?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Everyone takes drugs these days, Connor, I’m sure you’re aware of that. You know Nick, after all.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You’re in a band, is that right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Any good?’
‘We do OK.’
‘You going to be famous?’
‘I doubt it, at this rate.’
‘Shame. If you did, this would make a great wee story for dinner parties.’
‘Yeah, hilarious.’
Connor looked around him. He could hear the waves splashing against the Discovery’s hull, and the noise from the riverside road as cars swished past in the gloom thirty yards behind him. Above, a small twin prop was coming in to land further along the waterfront. There must be an airstrip along there, thought Connor. He suddenly remembered the gig.
‘Shit. What time is it?’
Jim looked at his watch. ‘Six o’clock.’
‘I’m late for soundcheck.’
‘I’ll be seeing you, then.’ Jim held out a hand, which Connor quickly shook. ‘Good luck with the gig. You’ll get a taxi at the train station, just over the road there. I’d give you a lift, but it’s hardly wise.’
With that, Jim headed towards one of the expensive
cars sitting in the car park, its lights blinking as he unlocked it. Connor watched him get in and drive off. He looked around again, and couldn’t see anyone on foot, just the blur of cars on the nearby road. So that was it, he was a drug dealer now. Fucking great. He lifted the kitbag and headed towards the taxi rank at the train station, picturing himself getting on the first train out of this fucking place instead.
Considering it was a wintry Tuesday night, Drouthy’s was surprisingly busy with uni and art-college students, as well as a gang of underage skater kids blagging drinks on fake ID. Connor tried to put all memories of the meeting at the Discovery behind him as he thought about the show, helped on by a couple of large sherbet-dab fingers of speed in the toilets after soundcheck. The gig was a double header alongside a Dundee band they knew called The Lithium Sea Monkeys. Connor didn’t much care for their heads-down, indie thrash punk but they were nice guys, and the fact that three of them were from Belfast meant Danny automatically bonded. Dundee University seemed to be mostly populated by Northern Irish. Kids left Belfast in their droves, tired of being surrounded by all the bullshit. Sectarian Glasgow wasn’t an option and Edinburgh was seen as the home of snooty yahs, so a small expat student community had grown up in Dundee.
Connor was a little jealous of the community spirit he heard about at Dundee Uni, it was small enough for people to know each other but not so small that it was claustrophobic. Then again, he’d bombed out of higher education after a year – and it would’ve been sooner if his tutors could’ve found him – so what the hell did he know about it?
Most of the two hundred kids rammed into the sweaty basement had come to see The Lithium Sea Monkeys and they put on a fine show, thrashing, flailing, shouting and being a whole heap of fun. Unlike the previous night, the crowd were at least interested enough to pay attention to The Ossians. The sight of a guitar band with two women in it was still a rarity in indie world, and it was a fact that always gained The Ossians extra attention from guys. Kate and Hannah tended to shrug it off, used to being objectified since hitting puberty. But it drove Connor mad, not just because they were his sister and his girlfriend, but because it was another example of how fucking annoying men were.
The crowd’s reaction changed from vague interest to enthusiastic cheering as The Ossians did their thing. Connor was swept up in a familiar contradictory feeling of self-satisfaction and mild panic at his band’s apparent popularity. As they approached the end of their set, Connor introduced ‘RLS’.
‘Today is the anniversary of Robert Louis Stevenson’s death,’ he said. ‘This song is dedicated to him.’
As he picked out the first gentle chords, a shout of ‘tits out’ came from the front, clear as a slap in the face. Connor glared into the crowd and saw a couple of skinny teenagers with stringy arms and shaven heads laughing to each other, not even looking at the stage. Without taking his guitar off he launched at them and landed with an elbow in one guy’s ribs and the guitar headstock in the face of the other. The jump pulled his guitar lead out, which lay buzzing loudly on stage.
The crowd separated as the three of them sprawled to the floor, Connor thrashing out with his right fist and using his left hand to bring the guitar neck down on them. After a moment of surprise the two guys started throwing punches back, and one of them quickly had Connor in a headlock while the other punched him in the face and stomach. Everyone around them was frozen with shock. Suddenly Danny was on them, flooring the smaller of the two guys without breaking stride. The other guy looked warily at Danny and backed off. Danny dragged Connor to his feet and round the side of the stage. By now Hannah and Kate had walked offstage, flicking amp switches as they went. It was all over as quickly as it had begun. Two bouncers from upstairs made it down, but since there didn’t seem to be anyone obviously misbehaving they just stood around, staring hard at punters and puffing their chests out.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Hannah shouted in Connor’s face. ‘You think you’re defending our honour or some bullshit? You’re just as bad as those wankers, you bloody idiot. Macho bollocks. We women are very impressed with your ability to fight with strangers who shout at us. Do you want to club me over the head and carry me back to your fucking cave now? Sometimes I wonder what on earth goes on in that head of yours, if anything goes on in there at all, which I very much doubt.’
She stamped her foot and raised her face to the ceiling.
‘Han’s right,’ said Danny. ‘You’re not helping. The girls get shit all the time, you just have to rise above that crap. Besides, you can’t fight for shite, so you always get beat up and I have to rescue you.’
‘Thanks for your opinions, but I’ll do what the fuck I like. What, now I’m not allowed to object to a pair of cunts disrespecting two of my best friends?’
‘That’s not what it’s about and you know it,’ said Hannah. ‘If they were shouting something about Danny you wouldn’t go off the deep end. Or if they were shouting something about you, you wouldn’t be half as annoyed as you are now.’
She crouched down in front of him.
‘Look, it’s not as if it doesn’t piss us off,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘But you’ve got to get it in perspective. Of course we want to smash their faces in, but they’re not worth it. That’s what you have to keep telling yourself, idiots like that aren’t worth the time or energy.’
Kate was standing over the pair of them, arms folded. ‘Well, little brother, that’s three gigs and three beatings. This tour is working out swell, isn’t it? At this rate, by the time we get to Glasgow you’ll be a basket case. I can’t even be bothered telling you what an arsehole you are.’ She looked around the crowd. Some people were watching them, others pretending not to. ‘I need a drink. Shall we?’
Connor watched her disappear through the crowd, her long black hair bobbing from side to side as she strode towards the bar. He felt like a basket case already.
Later that night, the heavens opened and a bitter rain lashed the streets. They were at a party in the student flat shared by two of The Lithium Sea Monkeys, a large bay window looking out over the river at the dim sodium speckle of Fife. Arab Strap played in the background and a simmering tension from earlier hung in the air.
Connor’s face was a punchbag. His left eye was swollen with bruising, as was his upper lip, which now had several gashes along it. His nose had patches of bluey brown colour and seemed looser than a nose should be, and he had a large scrape down the right side of his face from the corner of his eye to his jawline. He moved his fingers over his face and was reminded of the Elephant Man. He smiled at the thought. He was visiting his parents tomorrow and the sight of him in this state would drive his mum mad. Perfect.
One of the Lithium lads produced some coke, which Connor snorted two lines of despite a searing pain in his misshapen nose. He pinched another handful of Feminax from Kate’s handbag and took them in the toilet, washed down with a hefty glass of whisky. He was starting to feel all right. He was looking at his injuries in the bathroom mirror when he heard that ‘Teen Spirit’ ringtone, and the smile left his face.
He took the phone out his pocket, only now realising he still had his coat on. It was Nick. He pressed reply.
‘How did it go with Jim?’
‘Do you know how to change the ringtone on this phone? It’s doing my head in.’
‘I asked you a question.’
‘And I asked you a question.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, Connor, or I’ll break your fucking legs.’
‘How are you going to do that, if I never come back?’
‘Sorry?’
‘If I never come back to Edinburgh, and you can’t leave because you’re being tailed by the fucking FBI or CIA or whoever the fuck it is, then how are you going to do anything to me?’
‘I take it you’re drunk?’
‘Well?’
‘Connor, you little prick. I know people. All around Scotland. Don’t ever forget that. All it takes is a phone call
. So sober the fuck up, and tell me how the meeting went.’
Connor gently prodded his swollen eye and winced.
‘Fine.’
‘He gave you an envelope?’
‘How much is in there?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Connor.’
‘Don’t you think I should know what I’m carrying around, so I know how careful I should be?’
‘You should be very careful, believe me.’
‘I could open it and find out.’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
‘How would you know if I did?’
‘You really must be steaming. Remind me to call you earlier in the evening next time.’
‘Or I could go to the police.’
‘We both know that’s not an option.’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes. We do.’
‘I’d still like to know what I’m carting around.’
‘Connor, let me make this clear, so that it gets into even your retarded, drunken skull. If any envelope or parcel is opened, or anything is missing by the time you get back here, you’re a fucking dead man. If I hear from any of my associates that their packages have been tampered with, you’re a fucking dead man. If you fuck this up in any way, you’re a fucking dead man. Got it?’
‘I’m a dead man, got it.’ Connor ran his finger down the scratch on his cheek. ‘Now, are you going to tell me how to change this fucking ringtone?’
‘Goodbye, fuckwit.’
As Connor put the phone back in his pocket, he felt something else in there. He pulled it out. It was a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it. It was a flyer for the gig they’d just done. He turned it over, and on the back was written ‘your secrets are safe with me’ in neat handwriting. What the fuck? Was this meant for him? Maybe he’d lifted the flyer off a table somewhere, and this was a random note meant for someone else. But he couldn’t remember doing that. And if he hadn’t, then someone had deliberately gone into his coat pocket and put it there. Jesus. When had he not had his jacket on since they arrived in Dundee? He struggled to remember through the booze, then realised that he hadn’t been wearing it for the gig. It was lying at the side of the stage in a pile of bags and guitar cases. Had someone put the note in his pocket then? Fucking hell.
The Ossians Page 8