by Alan Parks
McCoy looked at him. Realised he was probably telling the truth. May had always been the boss. Had always made his decisions for him, told him what to do, what was what.
McCoy sighed. As if his day hadn’t been bad enough.
‘Just start at the beginning, Tam,’ he said. ‘Just tell me why you think he’s going to do himself in.’
Wattie appeared with three pints, put them down. Tam slugged down half of his, looked at McCoy nervously. ‘He’s no been home for a few days. May’s been going up the wall, sending me out to look for him. She got a message this afternoon to go and meet him in a cafe. He told her he wanted to see her to say goodbye.’
‘Look, he’s not had an easy time this past couple of days,’ said McCoy. ‘I probably didn’t help either. Maybe he just wants a change of scene, getting the train down to London, something like that.’
Tam shook his head. ‘He told her he was finished here, said it was over. Wanted to see her one last time.’
‘You sure he was serious, not just looking for sympathy?’
He shook his head. ‘May said she’d never seen him so serious, she was terrified, sent me to find you. She was too scared to come herself, says she knows what he’s done is wrong but she just wants him found before he can do something to himself.’
‘Very charitable of her,’ said McCoy. ‘Pity she didn’t extend the same courtesy to the girl he battered.’
Tam looked at him with tears in his eyes. ‘Please, Harry. I’m begging you. Help me find him before he does it. No matter what he’s done, he’s still my son.’ He wiped at his cheeks. ‘He’s no well, it’s no his fault.’
‘Let’s make one thing clear, Tam. I’m going to help you find the wee shite, not because I care if he tops himself or if May dies of a broken heart. I’m going to find him because he’s guilty of Alec Page and Donny MacRae—’
‘You saying Wee Tam killed Donny MacRae?’ Tam looked surprised. ‘I don’t think so, McCoy.’
‘Well, he did. May no tell you about that one? Would you have come running here if she had?’
Tam was sobbing now, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I didn’t know, I didn’t know . . .’
‘Aye well, you do now, and I’m going to make sure May gets done as well. Accessory to murder, whatever I can get the evil cow on.’
‘Harry,’ Wattie said, ‘calm it, come on.’
Tam got his bottle out his pocket with his shaky hands and took a swig.
Before McCoy could stop himself he’d knocked the bottle out Tam’s hand. It smashed off the wall of the pub, glass flying everywhere, stink of gut-rot whisky filling the air.
‘You need to fucking sober up and stop feeling so sorry for yourself if we’re going to find him. You hear me?’
Tam nodded, tried to get himself together.
‘Where did May last see him?’ McCoy asked.
‘In the cafe this afternoon,’ he said.
‘What cafe was it?’ asked Wattie.
Tam thought for a minute. ‘Benassi’s she said it was.’
‘Where’s that?’ asked Wattie.
‘Great Western Road, just across from—’ McCoy stopped. As soon as he’d said it he’d realised why Wee Tam had picked that cafe. ‘From Cooper’s house.’
McCoy looked over at Wattie. ‘He’s not going to kill himself at all. He’s going after Laura.’
FORTY-SEVEN
McCoy was right. He had heard thunder. The weather finally broke as they came out of the pub. Another distant rumble and then the heavy clouds above them burst. The rain was sudden and total, pounding down like a monsoon. They started running, made it to the car just before they got totally soaked.
‘Christ,’ said Wattie, wiping the rain off his face and turning the key. ‘All we fucking need.’
They turned off Stewart Street, windscreen wipers at full tilt, heading for Hamilton Park Street.
‘Why are you so sure he’s after Laura?’ asked Wattie.
‘He’s had a go at her before,’ said McCoy. ‘Kicked her around a bit. He’s got a thing about her.’ He sat forward and rubbed at the condensation on the windscreen. ‘And besides, what else is the wee bastard going to be doing hanging around Cooper’s?’
What he didn’t say was the feeling it was his fault. He’d threatened Wee Tam, told him what Laura knew. Maybe in trying to warn him off he’d really just pushed him into a corner, made him think he had to shut Laura up once and for all. Nothing he could do about it now but find her and find her quick.
Wattie turned the car into Great Western Road and they fell in behind an old Albion Van.
‘Can you no go any faster?’ asked McCoy.
‘Not if you want to get there in one piece,’ said Wattie, sounding exasperated. ‘You should try driving in this, it’s bloody murder. Cannae see two feet in front of my face.’
Another clap of thunder and a sudden flash of light illuminated the inside of the car.
‘And it’s getting bloody nearer,’ said Wattie. ‘God help us.’
Two minutes later they turned into Hamilton Park Road, the car skidding to a halt outside Cooper’s house. McCoy opened the car door and stepped out into the downpour, ran for the door. He hammered on it, heard Billy say ‘Hang on’ and the door opened.
‘Christ, McCoy, what is this weather like. I thought—’
‘Is Laura here?’ he asked urgently.
Billy shook his head. ‘Gone with Iris to her sister’s. Left a couple of hours ago.’
‘Fuck! If she comes back, you keep her in here, Billy. Hear me? Don’t let her out of your sight.’
Billy nodded. ‘What’s going on, McCoy?’ But he was already talking to his back; McCoy was running to the car, pulling the door open and getting in.
‘We need to get up to Haghill,’ he said to Wattie. ‘Now!’
Wattie turned the car, bumped it up on the opposite pavement and headed back up the road.
‘Can we radio in, get a couple of uniforms up there?’ asked McCoy.
Wattie shook his head. ‘The radio’s kaput. I just tried it. Think the weather’s taken the whole system down.’ He turned to McCoy. ‘Where is it we’re going exactly?’
‘Kennyhill Square, just off Alexandra Parade.’
Wattie nodded, started speeding down Great Western Road towards town. The road was running with water, overflow pipes gushing streams of it off the side of the tenements. Everyone that had been out in the street was sheltering in doorways, looking up at the sky. Really was biblical. McCoy’d only been out the car two minutes but was complete soaked, could feel his shirt and jeans clinging to him.
‘Ten minutes at the most,’ said Wattie. ‘As long as we don’t crash, that is.’
*
It took less. Wattie gunned the car the whole way, skidding and sliding on the wet roads. He turned in Kennyhill Square, pulled in behind a butcher’s van and they ran for the close. Tulip lived in number 5, up on the top floor. They could hear the noise of an accordion and people dancing as they started climbing the stairs. Wattie knocked as McCoy put hands on his knees, tried to get his breath back, water dripping off them both, staining the stone floor like blood.
Tulip pulled the door open; she was a little woman, always neat and tidy. She wasn’t tonight, though; she’d obviously had a drink and a couple of turns on the floor. Her face was bright red, hair all undone, heat coming off her in waves.
‘Harry!’ she exclaimed. ‘I wasnae expecting you! Come in, son, come in.’ She flapped the front door back and forward, trying to get some air into the house. ‘It’s like a bloody oven in here. This rain couldnae come soon enough. I said to Aidan it’s about time that—’
‘Iris here?’ McCoy interrupted.
‘No,’ she said. ‘She phoned from a pub, said they were on their way, her and that wee lassie Laura. Joined at the hip these days, they two. They havenae turned up yet. Maybe they cannae get a cab in this weather.’
McCoy looked at Wattie. It wasn’t what either of th
em wanted to hear. Tulip must have seen it on their faces.
‘What’s up with you two?’ she asked.
‘Anybody been up here looking for them, Tulip?’ asked McCoy. ‘Anyone hanging about?’
She shook her head; she was starting to look worried. ‘No. Nobody. Why?’
‘Probably nothing,’ he said, trying to smile.
A door in the hall opened behind her and an old man with a tartan bunnet stuck on his head looked round. ‘Tulip! Wee Benny’s looking for you, says you’d sausage rolls.’
She looked at them. ‘Are you coming in?’
McCoy nodded, couldn’t think what else to do. Needed time to think. And a drink. He walked through the hall, past all the pictures of the Queen, into the living room, Wattie trailing behind, looking at the pictures in surprise.
‘Born the same day,’ said Tulip. ‘Always loved her.’
*
Tulip was right about the living room; it was boiling. There were about twenty people in there; few kids running round daft, record player going, glasses and dishes of nuts and crisps dotted about everywhere.
Everyone nodded hello. Wee Benny shouted, ‘Look at the two drowned rats!’ and everybody laughed. McCoy took the whisky he was offered, found an empty space next to a display cabinet full of plates and crockery with the Queen on them.
‘What are we doing here, Harry?’ asked Wattie, sliding in beside him. ‘They’re no here.’
‘I know,’ said McCoy. ‘I’m just trying to think. Have you got any better ideas?’
Wattie shook his head. ‘No, but I don’t think standing here getting pissed is going to help.’
It was a fair point. McCoy knocked back the whisky, put his glass down on top of the display cabinet. ‘Do you want to trace their route, see if they’re standing somewhere trying to get a cab?’
Wattie nodded. ‘It’s better than nothing.’
McCoy looked round, trying to find Tulip to say cheerio. She was on the other side of the room now, standing by the windows. She’d a fan out with pictures of flamenco dancers on it, was waving it in front of her face. McCoy edged his way through the crowd towards her. Normally you could see all the way across Alexandra Park from Tulip’s living room. Not today. Was hard to see anything through the driving rain streaming down the windows. Was why Tulip had bought the flat, she always said. Loved the view of the park and the trees.
McCoy took a look out. Didn’t remember ever being in Alexandra Park, but he knew it was huge, even had a golf course in it. The rain was drumming hard on the windows, could just make out the wee pond surrounded by trees just over the iron railings. Some Alsatian dog was running about in the rain, barking and jumping, poor thing terrified of the lightning and thunder. Another rumble and the dog howled, tried to get under a bush. Seconds later the park was illuminated with light, three or four flashes.
And that’s when he saw it. The shoe lying on the concrete path by the pond. A platform shoe, the kind Iris had worn since they were fashionable the first time round.
‘Fuck,’ he said under his breath. ‘Fuck!’
He turned and made for the door, barging past the party-goers, grabbed Wattie. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘We need to go. I think I know where she is.’
FORTY-EIGHT
McCoy raced down the stairs, Wattie clattering behind him, and out into the square.
‘What’s going on?’ Wattie asked, standing in the close doorway. He was breathing hard, steam coming off his back. ‘What’s the bloody hurry all of a sudden?’
‘I think I saw a shoe, in the park,’ said McCoy, realising how weird it sounded. ‘From Tulip’s window.’
Wattie looked sceptical. ‘A shoe? Whose shoe? I don’t . . .’
McCoy pointed down the square to the iron fence surrounding the park.
‘Just come on!’ He started running. He could hear Wattie cursing behind him, splashes as he followed him through the puddles on the pavement.
There was a railing missing in the fence, looked like the gap was just wide enough to squeeze through. McCoy tried to push himself into it, just made it. Turned and Wattie was standing there, looking at the gap.
‘It’s too small,’ he said. ‘I’ll never make it.’
He started to climb the fence, no use. The railings were wet, no grip. He kept trying, finally managed to haul himself up, got his weight above the top and half jumped, half dropped to the ground on the other side. There was a loud rip as he fell and half his shirt was left on the spikes at the top of the railings.
‘For fuck sake!’ he said, standing up, knees and hands covered in mud. He pulled off what was left of his shirt and threw it under a tree. ‘You owe me a bloody new shirt after this,’ he grumbled.
‘Not my fault you’re a big bastard’ said McCoy. ‘Come on.’
They hurried up the path as another rumble of thunder rolled in. Had to keep wiping the rain from their faces, trying to see. Few seconds later there were another couple of flashes and McCoy pointed up the path.
‘There!’ he said.
They ran up and stopped in front of a woman’s platform shoe. It was red suede, worn, looked second-hand.
‘That’s Iris’s,’ said McCoy. ‘I’m sure it is.’
They looked round, hard to see much in the driving rain. It was cascading off the trees, hitting the ground, splashing back up again. The paths were an inch or so deep in it already, level of the pond was rising, lapping over the top, flooding the grass.
‘What now?’ asked Wattie.
‘I don’t know,’ said McCoy, looking round. ‘She can’t be far, maybe try—’
‘You hear that?’ asked Wattie.
‘Hear what?’ said McCoy. ‘I didn’t hear—’
Wattie shushed him. ‘Listen!’
They stood in silence: the only noise was the drumming of the rain. McCoy was just about to tell Wattie he was imagining things when he thought he heard a moan. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he turned around, scanned the park, trying to work out where it was coming from.
‘See?’ said Wattie. ‘I told you.’
‘Laura? Iris? You there?’ shouted McCoy, trying to be heard over the rain.
There was a rustle in the bushes to the left. Wattie spun round and the bushes rustled again. McCoy picked up a stick from the ground, held it up, stood there, waiting. Started to walk towards the noise.
‘Iris? That you?’ he shouted. ‘You—’
Suddenly there was a howl and the Alsatian dog jumped out from the bushes and tore up the path, barking and howling.
McCoy breathed out in relief, heart pumping, lowered the stick. Then he heard the moan again. Looked at Wattie. He nodded. He’d heard it, too.
‘Iris, that you?’ he shouted again. ‘Laura?’
He moved along the row of bushes, trying to work out where the sound was coming from. He stopped, stood still, holding his breath, eyes getting accustomed to the darkness, and that’s when he saw it. There was a woman’s hand poking out from under one of the bushes. He jumped back before he could stop himself, swore under his breath.
‘Wattie! Here!’
The moan came again and the hand moved. McCoy knelt down, pushed the bushes out the way and there was Iris; she was lying on the ground, face turned away from him.
‘Iris?’ he asked. ‘You okay?’
Wattie knelt down beside her, picked her up, carried her out to the path and laid her down. There was blood coming from a big gash across the back of Iris’s head, her eyes were closed. She was moaning, trying to say something. McCoy knelt down beside her. Put his head next to hers.
‘Iris, it’s Harry, are you okay?’
Her eyes flickered, opened, seemed to focus for a second, recognising him. ‘Harry?’ she whispered.
McCoy pushed the wet, blood-soaked hair back from her face. ‘Just lie there, Iris. You’re going to be all right, you’re going to be all right.’
She was trying to talk; her lips were moving but there was nothing coming out. McC
oy leant forward, trying to hear what she was saying. He could smell the gin on her breath and the perfume she always wore. Realised that as much as they squabbled with each other he liked her; last thing he wanted was for her to come to any harm. He held her hand. She squeezed his weakly.
‘Again, Iris. Try again. I didnae hear you, what are you saying?’
He leant in even closer, his ear touching her lips.
‘Laura,’ said Iris. ‘He’s got Laura.’
McCoy’s stomach dropped. ‘What do you mean? Iris? Iris?’
He was cradling her head in his hands, fingers wet with blood. ‘Where is he? Can you tell me?’
Her lips moved, no sound coming out, her eyes flickered for a second and they shut.
‘Iris, hold on. Hold on, hen,’ McCoy said, panicking.
He took his shirt off, folded it up and put it under her head. She lay there, taking small, shallow breaths, eyes flicking from side to side under the lids. McCoy looked around the park, worried someone was watching them.
‘Anyone there?’ he shouted.
Another rumble of thunder, and as it died down they heard a muffled scream, seemed to come from somewhere over by the left of the pond. They both looked up.
‘Go!’ said Wattie, ‘I’ll stay with Iris. Quick!’
FORTY-NINE
McCoy left Wattie cradling Iris and started running. He skirted around the side of the pond, trying to see where he was going in the driving rain. Kept battering off the bushes round the sides, sliding in the water on the path. Another lightning strike and suddenly he could see across the whole of the park. There were formal flower beds in front of him and then another wide path, almost like a road. Beyond that he couldn’t see much, just some shapes and outlines in the darkness.
He ran past the flower beds, slipped and cursed, was hard to keep on his feet; the grass was mostly mud now, sodden and sticky. He stayed down for a second, tried to get his bearings. There was a shape in the distance, just at the edge of his vision, down at the bottom of the hill. He tried to wipe the water from his face to see better. Narrowed his eyes, tried to focus. It looked like a big tree or some kind of tall, thin building. Whatever it was, something was moving beside it.