by Alan Parks
Wee Tam nodded. Smiled.
McCoy knew he was about to lose his temper but he didn’t care. ‘I always knew you were a stupid cow, May. I just hadn’t realised how truly bloody stupid you were. False alibi for a lad that beats up wee girls, kicks them in the stomach. Christ, but you must be proud of yourself.’
Big Tam jumped to his feet. ‘That’s enough, you. Out!’
McCoy looked at him. ‘Sit down and shut the fuck up before you do yourself an injury,’ he said. ‘If you think I’m scared of you, better think again.’
Big Tam reluctantly sat down, seethed in his armchair.
McCoy took the cigarettes out his pocket and offered Wee Tam one. He reached out and took it. As McCoy was lighting it for him, he asked, ‘Who were you selling the pills for, son?’
And that was the step too far.
Big Tam jumped up again and went to take a swing. May started screaming, telling McCoy to get the fuck out of her house. He stood up. Done what he’d come to do. May was shooing him out and he was walking towards the door, then he caught a glimpse of Wee Tam reflected in the mirror above the fireplace. Sitting back in the armchair, blowing smoke rings into the air above him, not a care in the world.
*
McCoy left the pub, started walking down Maryhill Road. Wasn’t happy about Wee Tam, wasn’t happy at all. There was something about him that wasn’t right. Something that made McCoy think he’d only just started what he planned to do and there was fuck all he could do about it. All he had on him was what Laura had said and there was no way her parents or Murray were going to let that come out. If it did, then so did Donny MacRae and what had happened to him. Papers would be all over it. Prospective MP’s runaway daughter and her slain gangland boyfriend.
Was glad he’d told Iris to keep her inside. Knew that if she was under Cooper’s wing there was no way Wee Tam would dare go anywhere near her. And then it struck him. What Cooper had said. We get everything. Like comes to like. Speed, acid, pills.
Pills.
He saw a cab coming down the street, held his hand out.
THIRTY-FIVE
It was Jumbo that answered the door. Big smile broke on his face when he saw McCoy.
‘How’s things, Jumbo? Thought you’d be out in the garden in this weather.’
‘I wanted to be, but I had to help Mr Cooper. He’s having a bath now.’
He stood there smiling.
‘Can I come in?’ asked McCoy
It looked like the idea had only just occurred to him. ‘Oh aye! Come in!’ He held the door wide and McCoy stepped into the hall. Jumbo closed it behind him, carefully locked it. Glanced up the stairs.
‘Billy’s down in the kitchen, if you want to go and see him. I better go up and see how Mr Cooper’s getting on.’
‘How is he?’ asked McCoy.
Jumbo looked guilty. ‘He’s a wee bit wobbly, but he’s started swearing at me again so I think he’s getting better.’
Billy was sitting at the kitchen table in a pair of football shorts and nothing else, counting out piles of twenties, fag burning away in the ashtray beside him. He looked up when McCoy appeared, held his hand up. ‘Hang on.’
Started a new pile, his lips moving as he counted.
McCoy wasn’t surprised he was down here. Kitchen was a good few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.
‘Four eighty. Five hundred.’
Billy put the last note down, looked relieved. ‘Finished. I always lose my bloody place and have to start all over again.’ He nodded over. ‘Beers are in the fridge, if you fancy.’
McCoy got one out, found the opener, sat down. He nodded at the piles of notes. ‘Speaking of ill-gotten gains, is Wee Tam from the Strathmore one of yours?’
Billy shook his head. ‘Funny you should ask that. Not any more, he isn’t. Thieving wee bastard that he is. Kept dipping his hand into the profits, thinking he was big-time. Had to go.’
McCoy drew his finger across his chin. ‘That you, was it?’
Billy grinned. ‘Not me. That kind of stuff’s beneath me now. It was Percy Thrower up there. Training him up.’
‘Jumbo?’ asked McCoy, surprised.
Billy nodded. ‘Has to earn his living like everyone else.’
‘You need to watch Wee Tam, Billy. I just left him. Tried to rattle his cage but he was having none of it. Stayed ice cold like he didn’t have a care in the world. He did Alec Page over, took great pleasure in it. And he’s the one that attacked Laura. Could be more dangerous than you think.’
Billy sat back. ‘Duly noted. I thought he was just a wee toerag. That’s why I sent Jumbo.’
‘He’s more than that. Make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near Laura, eh?’
Billy nodded. Went and got them another pair of cans. Sat back down.
‘How’s Cooper?’ asked McCoy.
‘Getting there. Been on the phone all afternoon, then got Jumbo to go into town, get him some gear, his old stuff’s too big now.’
‘What’s he up to?’
Billy shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. He must be feeling better. Isn’t telling me a bloody thing.’
‘Christ, you here now?’ Iris was standing in the doorway, a pile of underpants and vests in her hands. ‘Hoped I’d seen the last of you for a while. His bloody lordship wants his skivvies ironed. Give me bloody strength.’
Billy pointed over her shoulder. ‘Utility room is down the corridor.’
Iris looked at him, shook her head. ‘Utility room? It’s far from a bloody utility room you and Stevie Cooper were raised, I’ll tell you that.’
She disappeared.
‘It’s getting like bloody Upstairs Downstairs in here,’ said McCoy. ‘Never thought I’d be pining after Memen Road.’
‘I know,’ said Billy. ‘Things are moving fast, it’s nuts. He’ll have a bloody butler next. Hudson!’
They laughed.
‘God help us,’ said McCoy. ‘You think he’ll start drinking with a china cup? Pinky in the air?’
‘Will I fuck.’
They looked up and Cooper was standing in the doorway, naked but for a towel around his waist. He still wasn’t what he had been, but he looked a heck of a lot better. He had some colour; body didn’t look quite so thin and weak. Freshly shaved, hair in its proper quiff. He walked over to the sink, poured himself a pint glass of water and drank it over. Wiped his mouth.
‘Billy, that’s too much money to be in here. Get it over to the accountant. Send Jumbo in a cab. There’s a couple of grand in my bedside drawer. Get him to take that as well.’
Billy nodded, stood up. Bundled the notes into a Galbraith’s carrier bag and headed for the stairs.
‘Somebody’s feeling better,’ said McCoy.
‘What happened to your head?’ asked Cooper, pointing to McCoy’s bald patch and the line of stitches.
‘I got in the way of a kidnap.’
‘Arse,’ said Cooper. ‘Probably deserved it.’
‘Aye well. They think I’ve got concussion, so I’m signed off for a week.’
‘Have you?’ asked Cooper, peering at him.
McCoy shook his head. ‘I feel fine.’
‘You’ve got nothing to do, then?’ asked Cooper.
‘Not really. Got a few things I could be—’
‘Good. You can come with me. Hold me up if I get wobbly. Do you good.’
‘Where? Come where?’ asked McCoy, not quite sure what was going on.
‘My uncle Seamus died. Need to go to the funeral.’
McCoy hated funerals – was just about to launch into an excuse about his concussion maybe coming back when Cooper told him where the funeral was.
‘Okay,’ said McCoy. ‘I’ll go and pack a bag. Pick me up in half an hour?’
Cooper nodded. ‘Remember a black tie.’
25th August 1970
1004 Wonderland Avenue, Los Angeles
Bobby sniffed, sat back on the leather couch and let the coke run down his throat. Hit him immediate
ly, the familiar burn, the rush of blood. Stuff was good all right. The dealer looked up at him, waiting. Bobby nodded, and he grinned.
‘Told you it was good. I told you, man!’ The dealer started emptying the wrap onto the mirror on the coffee table.
‘This guy – I don’t know what he is, Colombian, Brazilian, I don’t know, somewhere down there – anyway, he comes up from Mexico in a little plane. Lands out by Bakersfield, some avocado farm or something. Insane! The guy’s in and out in two hours, and you know what?’
Bobby wasn’t really listening, just watching the dealer’s hand go up and down, the chop, chop, chop of the credit card on the mirror.
Suddenly realised the dealer was looking at him. ‘What?’ he said.
‘He’s the straightest guy you’ve ever seen. I mean totally straight, like blue leisure pants, white short-sleeve shirt, looks like he sells TVs! Can you believe it?’
Bobby shook his head. Didn’t much care either way. Leant down and snorted another two lines. A car horn sounded outside. He wiped his nostrils, rubbed his finger on his gums.
‘Car’s here,’ he said. ‘Need to go.’
The dealer nodded. ‘Sure, man, anything you need. Where you off to?’
‘Troubadour. Some English guy. Meant to be good. The whole town’s going.’
The dealer nodded, handed him two wraps and pocketed the hundred-dollar bill Bobby held out.
‘What’s the guy’s name?’ he asked.
Bobby shook his head. ‘Can’t remember. John somebody, I think.’
19th July 1973
THIRTY-SIX
Milltown Cemetery. Even in the bright sunlight it was a miserable place. Seemed to go on forever, rows and rows of graves and statues and neglected family mausoleums. McCoy stood at the side of the grave, dark suit and black tie like the rest of the mourners, hands clasped in front of him. Even with their suits on, they looked a rough lot. Big men, most of them. Face and hands bearing the wear and tear and scars of a working life in the margins. Bouncers, labourers, hired muscle. The women were small, worn down by cleaning jobs and kids and never having enough money to make ends meet.
McCoy looked past them up to the hills in the distance as the priest began. He’d never been to Northern Ireland, didn’t know what to expect, but it looked strangely familiar. Belfast was a lot like Glasgow. The city centre was another Victorian grid of sandstone buildings built to reinforce civic pride and to celebrate the money made from shipbuilding. Libraries, town halls, churches – all of them looked the same. The only difference being Belfast was at war.
He’d stared out the taxi window on the way in from the docks. Couldn’t quite believe it. Army patrols walking through the town, rifles pointing down in front of them. Roadblocks, some official, some just burnt-out buses and old sofas. Blown-out buildings everywhere. The Troubles had always been something distant, on the news or in the paper. He only realised now how close they were, only forty-odd miles away. The people looked tired, beaten by it all. Friendly enough but wary, no one quite sure where they were on the shifting sands of suspicion.
‘Ashes to ashes . . .’
McCoy looked back at the grave and Uncle Seamus’s coffin lying in it. Cooper’s dad’s brother. Remembered him a bit, met him in Glasgow a few times. A big man in a suit and brown suede shoes, grin on his face, pint in his hand. Smelt of fags, beer and a shirt that needed changing. Supposed he might have been the closest thing Cooper had had to a father. Even if he was just another drunk, same as the real one.
A few women came forwards, dropped some flowers into the grave. The priest crossed himself and that was that. Uncle Seamus was gone. Despite himself, McCoy crossed himself as the gravediggers moved forward and the group of twenty or so mourners started walking back up to the gates.
McCoy, like everyone else, waited until he was outside before he lit up – wasn’t quite sure why, just didn’t seem respectful to smoke in a graveyard.
Cooper appeared beside him. Got a light. ‘Anyone asks, I had pneumonia,’ he said as he blew out the smoke from his Regal.
McCoy nodded. Wasn’t sure anyone would really notice Cooper’s condition. He was looking better every day, more colour, more weight on.
‘You coming to the Rock?’ he asked.
McCoy nodded. ‘I’ll come for one,’ he said. Felt it was the least he could do.
‘One?’ said Cooper. ‘What’s up with you? It’s an Irish wake, for fuck sake!’
‘Yep, and it’s an Irish wake in West Belfast for a man who was maybe part of the IRA and I’m a British polis. Not sure I’ll be too welcome when the rebel songs start.’
Cooper grinned. ‘Might be right. You going back to the hotel after?
McCoy nodded. ‘Going to have a lie down this afternoon. Still feel a bit dizzy.’
‘All right. C’mon, we’ll get a lift from Sean.’
They hurried over to Sean, his young nephew, who was getting into a battered Cortina. Squeezed in the back next to a granny with a wee boy in a suit on her lap. The wee boy looked at him. ‘My uncle Seamus is dead,’ he said.
‘Johnny! Behave!’ said the granny, slapping his legs. Immediate tears.
Cooper turned round, rubbed the wee boy’s head. ‘Och, you’re all right, Johnny. Here . . .’ He dug in his pocket, found a new fifty pence and gave it to him.
Tears immediately replaced with a broad grin. ‘Granny, can I get sweets?’
McCoy listened to the two of them argue. He’d need to wait until after his dinner was the gist of it. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d lied to Cooper, but he had. He had plans for the day. And they didn’t include having a lie down in the hotel.
He ended up having two pints, was just about to have another when Cooper’s auntie started singing ‘The Men Behind The Wire’. Decided discretion was the better part of valour. He’d shown his face, laughed at the ‘you better watch yourself round here’ jokes, done his time. He said cheerio to Cooper and headed for the door. Realised Sean was following him.
‘I’ll give you a lift into town,’ he said. ‘Be safer.’
McCoy started to tell him he was fine, but Sean cut him off. ‘Uncle Stevie says I was to give you a lift.’
McCoy nodded, no real point arguing.
The road into town down the Falls Road took a while. They had to keep turning off and going round, army patrols rumbling past, half the streets blocked off.
‘Always like this?’ McCoy asked.
Sean grinned. ‘This is a good day. Should see it when a bomb’s gone off.’
McCoy nodded, wondered what a young guy like Sean’s future looked like here. Only two options, as far as he could see. Get out. Go to London, Liverpool, anywhere. Or stay here and get sucked into it all, whether you liked it or not.
They stopped at the lights, Sean telling him all about his trying to get an apprenticeship, McCoy nodding, not really listening. Was still trying to take it all in. There was a group of four or five soldiers standing at the corner outside a small park, five, ten feet away, guns pointing down in front of them, constantly scanning left and right. Oldest one looked about nineteen. Couldn’t be easy for them either, he supposed. Just another way out of a shitty town in the Midlands or the North East or Glasgow. Places where things had closed down, jobs were difficult to come by.
‘Where are you staying?’ asked Sean.
‘The Europa,’ said McCoy.
Sean whistled. ‘Fancy.’
‘Aye well, it’s not me paying or we’d be in some boarding house, believe me.’
‘Drop you in Donegal Square?’ asked Sean.
‘Sounds good,’ said McCoy.
Five minutes later he watched Sean drive off into the traffic, tried to work out where he was. Asked a woman the way to Victoria Street. She told him in an accent he could almost follow. Assured him it was ten minutes away at the most. He set off in the direction she told him.
The town centre took a bit of negotiating. There were checkpoints and barriers everywhere, mesh bomb scr
eens over the shops, hardly any people on the streets. He didn’t blame them. Who would go through all the trouble to get into town and then spend the time worrying you were going to get bombed as you wandered round Woolworths?
He turned into Victoria Street. Was about to ask someone where it was when he saw it. Couldn’t miss it, really. A hugely fortified Victorian building surrounded by fences and cameras and concrete blocks. Had to be Musgrave police station. He walked down the wire tunnel to the door and pressed the buzzer. A camera spun round to film him, a voice barked at him through the speaker, he said he was here to see Hugh Faulds.
Nothing much seemed to happen, then he heard a buzzer and click and Hughie Faulds was standing in the open doorway, hand out to shake. ‘Harry bloody McCoy!’ he said, pumping his hand up and down. ‘Great to see you. C’mon, let’s get out of this bloody place.’
Faulds had come up with McCoy, been a pal. He was a huge guy, six foot four, broad as a house. Good polis, too. Couldn’t believe it when he’d told him he was going back to Northern Ireland. Troubles had already started, bombs on the TV every night. McCoy had told him he was mad. Faulds happily admitted he was right, but he said he was still going. Home was home.
‘How was the funeral?’ he asked as they walked around the building.
‘Usual,’ said McCoy. ‘Get the body in the ground quick as you can, then start drinking.’
Faulds laughed. ‘Not much bloody changes.’ He pointed at a light-blue Viva sitting amongst the other cars in the yard at the back of the station.
‘Shite car, but it’s safe parked in here.’
McCoy nodded.
‘Need to go to the mortuary. Don’t worry, I remember what you’re like, just need to pick up a report, no blood and guts, and there’s a cafe beside it does a great Ulster fry. We can have a chat while we stuff ourselves. Hungry?’
McCoy nodded, realised he was. Had left the Rock before the sandwiches and soup had come out.
They got in the car, Faulds managing to squash himself into the driver’s seat. McCoy found a space on the passenger side after he’d transferred all the sweetie wrappers and files into the back. Faulds wasn’t joking: it was a shite car, made clunking noises every time they got above twenty miles an hour. Clunking noises accompanied by a litany of swearing from Faulds.