“Don’t just sit there, get inside,” Davey Senior told his son.
He scrambled to his feet, raced inside and pelted up the stairs. Just as Davey Senior closed the door there was an almighty roar from across the road, in the direction of Ma McVay’s house. Then followed a torrent of expletives impressive in their violence. Davey Senior slammed the door shut and locked it, but Frankie’s vile abuse of the person responsible for the attack on his mother was still clearly audible.
Frankie left his mother’s house feeling much cheerier, a sports bag slung over one shoulder. If he was stopped and searched by the police they wouldn’t be able to do him for anything. There was nothing illegal about carrying cricket equipment, but it was only the bat beneath all the pads that he was interested in. A cricket bat was capable of causing great carnage when in the hands of someone who knew how to use it. Frankie knew nothing about cricket, he thought it was for poofs and arseholes, but boy could he cave in someone’s skull with one.
The name Davey Senior had given him had rocked him to his foundations. He still couldn’t quite believe it but somehow he knew he was telling the truth. Frankie had been aware for a while now that his rapid rise in the criminal world had been attracting the attention of the big hitters and that one day they’d see him as a threat. What he hadn’t banked on was his own mentor being the one to try and take him out. But why had the stupid bastard sent his lackies to throw bricks through his ma’s window like fucking kids? Frankie stopped dead in his tracks. They did it in broad daylight because they knew they’d be seen and he’d come after them. He was walking into a trap.
“Fecking eejit,” he muttered to himself.
Instead he turned back the way he’d come and headed into his local pub, a dodgy dive filled with all the local riffraff who spent their days and their money getting tanked.
When he entered he found someone sat on his usual stool at the bar but they hastily vacated it when he strode towards them, everyone shifting out of his way.
“Whisky,” was all he said.
The barman knew the twelve year old Bowmore was his favourite tipple so he placed a double on the bar before him without asking for payment.
Frankie knocked it back then ordered another and another, all the while deep in thought. Contrary to the effect it had on everyone else, whisky only sharpened his thinking, improved clarity.
Duncan Blackwood had spotted Frankie’s talent for brutality after the scalping incident. He’d assumed Frankie would be another of the mindless apes he liked to surround himself with but Frankie had proved he was smart and business-minded and Blackwood hated him for it. He’d nurtured Frankie, encouraged him, but all the while the rodent-like little man had been plotting his downfall. This attack on his Ma’s house was a public declaration that Frankie was no longer part of his crew and didn’t enjoy his protection.
Frankie slammed down the empty glass on the bar repeatedly. Well fuck him and his protection, he didn’t need it. He had his own crew and - unlike the fucking pot plants Blackwood employed - his men were smart and loyal, although Frankie was careful to make sure he never hired anyone smarter than himself, but he wasn’t sure that person existed.
“Another whisky,” he said, throwing the empty glass at the bartender, who artfully dodged the flying glass, picked it up a fresh one, filled it and placed it before him. He’d been serving Frankie for years, he was a good judge of his moods, so he’d been prepared for the assault. A barman in a neighbouring pub had once objected to being used for target practice and Frankie had retrieved the glass he’d thrown at the man, smashed it and carved the letter F into his forehead with one of the shards. So he was determined to take anything Frankie doled out to him stoically because he wasn’t going to end up the same way.
Frankie threw the whisky down his throat, banged the glass on the counter several more times, dumped a twenty pound note on the bar - which wasn’t enough to cover what he’d consumed - then left. Eager chatter started up in the pub the minute the door had swung shut behind him. Frankie’s mood was only going to lead to more chaos.
Frankie decided to wait for Paul and Jamesie to return from taking his Ma and sister to the train station before making his move. Duncan was constantly surrounded by bodyguards, he was paranoid about being bumped off, so Frankie wanted some back-up for the final confrontation, back-up he could trust.
When he explained his theory and what he intended to do about it to his pals they were shocked but also tremendously excited. It would mean big things for all their futures.
Frankie’s plan was to face Duncan in public, where he thought he was safe. He knew exactly where to find him - ensconced in his strip club, sat in the VIP section drinking champagne with some old tart on his arm, thinking he was fucking royalty. He was about to get a very harsh wake-up call.
Inside the club stank of body odour and cigarette smoke. A woman with thighs like cottage cheese and a wobbly stomach gyrated half-heartedly around a pole to an unenthusiastic audience. The club was only populated by the real dregs, one of whom had his hand stuffed inside his pants, but he was showing even less enthusiasm than the dancer on the stage.
The barman stood waiting to greet them, Frankie’s whisky ready for him on the bar - like every other barman in Glasgow he’d heard the stories too - but Frankie ignored him and walked straight over to where Duncan was ensconced in his private booth, Jamesie and Paul following.
When he saw Frankie approach, Duncan raised his champagne glass in a toast, the smile on his lips making Frankie so furious he itched to smash the bastard’s head off the table, but instead he smiled back and nodded. He could be subtle when the occasion required.
Duncan was flanked by two of his bodyguards, both big, thick-looking bastards with buzz cuts and square heads. Neither of them were capable of outwitting the bowl of salted peanuts sat on the table that were probably rife with germs and other people’s piss.
Duncan waved his hands magnanimously, thinking himself completely safe. “Frankie, good to see you. Sit down, have a dram.”
“Thank you Duncan,” he said quietly, gratefully, but he made no move to pick up the glass placed before him.
“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” said Duncan, settling back in his seat cradling his champagne glass, as usual dripping with gold jewellery, which drowned his scraggy frame. He had a perpetual stoop, which made it look as though the thick gold chains around his neck were dragging him down. His hair was sparse and mousy brown, chin barely there, eyes small and dark. Ugly and completely unthreatening-looking he looked like he’d lose a fight in a school playground, and he would. It was only his skill with a blade that had built up his reputation. His reflexes were like lightning and while his opponent was wondering why their intestines were suddenly hanging out Duncan was preparing to cut their throat. He wasn’t above using his knife on people for no reason. It was why he’d been drawn to Frankie, they shared a reckless lunacy.
“You’ve heard about the attack on my Ma’s?” opened Frankie.
“Of course. Is she alright?”
The false concern almost tipped Frankie over the edge, but that was Duncan’s intention. Duncan knew how to push his buttons, however Frankie was prepared. The syringe was already in his hands beneath the table.
“Can we discuss this in private?” replied Frankie, nodding at the woman sat on Duncan’s left.
“Leave us,” Duncan told her.
Frankie stifled a grimace as the woman got to her feet, every part of her saggy body seeming to quiver, face a nippy sweetie, brown hair long and greasy. Not exactly a trophy bird but Duncan’s eyesight was crap so to him she probably looked like Cindy Crawford.
“Jeezo, I wouldnae ride her into battle,” Frankie said under his breath.
“What did you say?” said Duncan, straining to hear over the low thrum of the music.
“Nothing.”
“So Frankie, what can I do for you?”
“I think you know Duncan. What the fuck was that attack on m
y Ma’s house about?”
“I wish I knew. Have you found who did it yet?”
Frankie shook his head and looked from Paul to Jamesie. “Can you believe the front of this dobber?”
“What the fuck did you call me?” demanded Duncan, body snapping up straight. “Who the hell do you think you are you little shit? If it wasn’t for me you’d still be fighting with your other little dickless friends on street corners, selling scraps of drugs to losers. I fucking made you so, if the mood takes me, I can destroy you. I…”
“Oh shut it ya daft wee arsehole,” said Frankie.
Duncan’s jaw dropped. He was unable to think of a single word because he was so stunned while his bodyguards just sat beside him, looking menacing.
“Your business is booming thanks to me,” spat Frankie, jabbing himself in the chest with his finger. “It’s me everyone’s shit scared of, not you and your little knives. I’m the reason you’re the fucking big man around here and now I’ve decided you’re dead weight. You’re done you little rat-faced wanker.”
“You’ve really done it now…Steve, what the fuck are you doing?” shrieked the wee man when one of his gigantic bodyguards started to slump sideways onto him. “Jesus,” he cried when the other one fell face forward onto the table with a bang, knocking over a champagne glass. “What’s going on?”
“Paul and Jamesie here injected them with a wee cocktail that will make them go sleepy-byes for a few hours,” replied Frankie, thoroughly enjoying himself now he had the upper hand. In response his friends grinned and held up the empty syringes. “By the time they wake up,” continued Frankie, “you’ll be in tiny little pieces. You made a mistake going after my Ma. If you hadn’t done that I might have given you a quick death, after all you did give me my big chance, but no, you had to be a wank.”
Frankie slammed the hypodermic into the top of Duncan’s left hand, which rested on the table top, making him screech, the sound drowned out by the music.
“What have you done to me?” he cried fearfully.
“Just a wee drug to knock you out. You’ll wake up in plenty of time to enjoy the surprise I’ve set up for you.”
Duncan’s eyes rolled shut and he slid sideways onto one of his bodyguards.
One of the good things about the VIP lounge was that it was out of sight of the rest of the club, most significantly the doormen. Frankie had warned Duncan many times that it was a very unsecure place for him to sit but he’d brushed his recommendation aside as paranoia, feeling protected by the presence of his two bodyguards. It only added to the thrill for Frankie that he was taking Duncan down with his own stupidity and stubbornness.
Paul and Jamesie dragged the unconscious Duncan to his feet and hauled him to the door.
“Alright boys? He’s had too much champagne again,” Frankie told the doormen with a knowing smile. They smiled back and shrugged. Duncan was renowned for being unable to take his drink. They were allowed to abduct the man.
Duncan was roused by a bucket of cold water being thrown over him.
“What the fuck?” he chittered as his body struggled to cope with the icy deluge, struggling against the thick ropes tethering him to the chair. It was a shock to realise he’d been brought to the basement of his own home, which was kitted out as a torture chamber, protected by a padlocked steel door and soundproofed walls.
He nearly wet himself when Frankie knelt before him, grinning insanely. “Hello wee man,” said Frankie.
“You’re going to suffer for this Frankie,” shrieked Duncan, half-angry, half-terrified out of his wits. He’d watched Frankie torture people before, had witnessed first hand how much pleasure he got out of it. He inflicted pain for fun so Duncan knew he was going to die a gruesome death. “I have powerful contacts who’ll be furious at you for this. They’ll take you down and kill your precious Ma and little sister at the same time.” He was practically screaming the words, voice high and girlish, which made him ashamed.
The punch snapped Duncan’s head back. Blood filled his mouth and everything went black for a moment before his vision cleared and he saw Frankie glaring down at him.
“Shut it you fucking dick. No one’s coming for you and no one will give a monkey’s fart what happens to you. You’re a pain in everyone’s collective arse and we’re all sick of you strutting around like a fucking ferret in an Armani suit. You know the old saying, you can’t polish a turd and you pal are a fucking desiccated jobby. You had your turn, now it’s mine.”
Duncan spat out a mixture of blood, saliva and teeth onto the concrete floor before replying. “Who do you think you are you little shite? There’ll be big retribution for this and someone will show you that you’re not the fucking big man you think you are. You strut about like you’re invincible because you’re the local psychopath but no one respects people like you. All they do is fear you and that leads to hate and you know what hate leads to?”
“I bet it can’t be worse than what’s going to happen to you,” retorted Frankie while Paul and Jamesie looked on.
“This will be you one day. At some point you’ll fuck with someone bigger and more ruthless than you and they’ll take you out.”
“That person doesn’t exist.”
“They do and you’ll get what’s coming to you, you…”
“Oh shut it, you’re seriously getting on my tits you stupid wee fud. Now, to business. Say hello to Uncle Tam.”
Duncan released a girlish shriek when he saw Tam McVay, Moira’s younger brother, standing in the corner. The short, tubby man with slicked-back black hair stared at him with small piggy eyes. As Duncan returned his gaze Tam’s eyes slowly widened, his jaw sliding outwards to the left, displaying small pointed white teeth. This man was just as insane as his nephew and it was rumoured he’d done in Frankie’s dad when he’d cheated on Moira. Everyone knew this except Moira herself after Frankie went to great pains to convince her he’d run off.
“What are you doing here?” whispered Duncan, throat tight.
“Here’s here to watch the show, aren’t you Uncle Tam?” smiled Frankie.
Tam eagerly shook his head, eyes bulging out of his head, jaw twisting even further.
“He pure loves a good torture,” added Frankie. With that he began to examine the tools of pain Duncan kept locked in a capacious old-fashioned trunk. “I want to try something new with you.” He picked a small axe out of the trunk. “I’ve never used this wee beauty before.”
Duncan physically jumped when he swiped the air with it, the blade making a whistling sound.
“One thing I always like about you Duncan, you look after the tools of your trade. Pity you never looked after your workforce like you do these. If you had this might not be happening to you now.” Frankie let the axe drop to his side as he studied Duncan, his head cocked to one side. “It would have happened one day though. I always intended to kill you and take over everything. You just speeded things up with your fucking breathtaking stupidity. I mean, did you seriously think I was going to roll over because you put some bricks through my Ma’s window? I’m surprised you didn’t get your men to ring the doorbell and run away. Pathetic. I mean, what was the point?”
“It was a public display to show you are officially outed,” Duncan retorted. He knew he was going to die and refused to bow down to the terror building inside him, the pressure so intense he thought the top of his head might blow off. “You were getting far too fucking full of yourself.”
“You stupid fuckwit. All you did was warn me what you meant to do. Why not arrange a cosy little ambush somewhere quiet and deserted?”
“Because I wanted you to watch me tear your reputation apart, destroy the big man image. You strut around like some fucking ginger peacock. You should have taken the hint and fucked off, walked five hundred miles.” He barked out a nervous laugh at his clever play with words.
Duncan abruptly stopped talking when Frankie raised the axe above his head with both hands, spittle and a scream flying from his lips, eyes so
far back in his head only the whites showed.
“I am not one of The Proclaimers,” he shrieked.
Duncan stared up at him, also screaming, helpless to defend himself as the axe was brought down on his head. The first blow hit him in the left side of the jaw, breaking it. The second landed across the bridge of his nose, jolting his entire body in his seat, putting a massive dent in his face. Duncan’s scream was silenced, limbs twitching in their bonds. The third blow was so powerful it took Duncan’s head right off his shoulders. It hit the floor with a thud, rolled about on the floor then came to a halt at Frankie’s feet, eyes wide open with surprise and horror, mouth agape, bloodied tongue lolling out.
“Well that shut him up,” said Frankie before releasing a loud bray that Paul and Jamesie took to be a laugh. They regarded their old school friend with unease, recognising he was someone else entirely now, someone they were shit scared of. He’d also became infinitely more powerful in their city. No one would dare challenge him now, not after this. All Duncan’s dozy thugs would docilely accept the change in leadership, they wouldn’t care just as long as they continued to get paid. No doubt Frankie would eliminate them one by one and replace them with his own handpicked men, surrounding himself with a strong, unbreachable crew. They were now looking at the most powerful man in Glasgow and probably the whole of Scotland, who was staring at his mentor’s severed head with unmitigated glee.
“That was fucking beautiful Frankie boy,” exclaimed Tam, his deep voice bouncing crazily around the room. He grinned bizarrely, jaw jutting sideways. “The walloper got what he deserved right enough.”
Frankie gripped the gruesome object by the hair and held it up for them to see, blood dripping from the neck stump, making Paul’s breakfast want to evacuate his stomach.
“Finally I’ve got another trophy for my collection,” said Frankie proudly. He found an empty cardboard box and dropped the head inside then stared at the axe blade, turning it over in his hands, fascinated by the blood and gore clinging to it. He experienced a pleasurable sense of rightness and oneness. “I like this, I think I’ll keep it too,” he smiled.
Dividing Line Origins (Short story anthology - Dividing Line Series) Page 10