by Tony Black
He had bought their first child and now he was taking another one from them for the same price. He tried not to think about the transaction. He didn’t fool himself that he was being benevolent; it was business, but he wanted it out of the way.
A mangy dog barked at him as McArdle got out the car. He stamped his foot on the ground and the beast went running. As he walked towards the open door that hung on one hinge, McArdle tapped the inside of his pocket. He was tooled up, knew better than to come down here without a chib, but he was also carrying the payment for Tierney and Vee.
A junkie on the stairwell asked him for a fag.
‘Fuck off.’ Scum. Just trash, he thought.
As he ascended the steps McArdle scrunched his nose – the stair smelled of piss and vomit. He hated being back in schemes like this. It was almost an insult to him, but at the same time it made him feel good to know he’d got out. He was better than the wasters that stayed there. He was the Deil; he was someone.
At Tierney’s door he thudded on the panel with the outside of his hand.
‘Open up, y’prick.’
He heard movement, coughing. He could already imagine the weak frame of the skinny man stumbling towards the door. There was a rattle of chains, a key in the lock, then a latch being slid. As a chink of light appeared in the gap between door and jamb he forced his way in.
‘Took your fucking time.’
Tierney smiled, a toothless grin. ‘Sorry, man. Sorry . . . Was, er, taking a dump, eh.’
McArdle poked him in the chest. Tierney recoiled. ‘Do you think I want to know what you get up to in here?’ He grabbed Tierney’s jaw, squeezed his lips together. ‘Keep that shut!’
Vee came through from the living room, draped in a long grey cardigan. She held herself in her arms and leaned on the wall for a moment. Straight away, McArdle knew she was wasted. ‘Look at the fucking state of you . . . Not going to get any punters paying for that skanky arse, are you?’
Vee slid down the wall. As her legs folded her buttocks rested on her heels. The belt of her cardigan curled behind her like a tether.
McArdle walked away from them shaking his head. In the living room he put his hand to his nostrils. ‘Jesus, it stinks in here . . . Can you not open a window?’
Tierney came scurrying behind him, grabbed the handle and pushed – a gust of air blew in from the sea. ‘Is that better, Deil?’
A nod was fired in his direction, but there was no real approval attached to it. ‘You live like animals, do you know that?’
Tierney shrugged. He looked over his shoulder to see Vee coming in on all fours.
‘Look, look at this . . . She even walks like a fucking animal.’ McArdle laughed hard, dropped his head and smacked his palm off his forehead.
‘If you say so, Deil . . .’ said Tierney.
The laughter subsided. McArdle strolled around the room. He passed Tierney and grabbed the dazed Vee by the hair, twisted hard. It took her a few moments for the pain centres to register, but when they did she screamed out and flapped hands around her head.
‘See this, see what I’m doing here . . .’ said McArdle. He twisted harder. ‘This is just a bit of fun.’ He dragged Vee to the open window. He could see Tierney growing anxious – the thin man drawing his hands to his mouth.
‘Deil, what are you doing?’ said Tierney.
McArdle silenced Vee with a backhander; the force of the blow raised her on her knees for a brief moment and then her head struck a harsh angle with the floor and she collapsed, splayed out like a rag doll. McArdle suddenly grabbed her round the waist and tipped her over the edge of the window.
‘No! No!’ yelled Tierney. ‘Deil, please . . . No!’
McArdle held Vee by the ankles as he dangled her out of the high-rise. She was lifeless for a brief spell but when she regained consciousness she started to scream.
McArdle laughed, shook her legs, watched her head bang off the roughcasting on the side of the building; little stone chippings escaped. He could hear the dog he’d seen earlier barking as the chippings fell to the ground. ‘Is this not a bit of fun, Vee . . . eh?’ He felt Tierney approach, place a hand on his shoulder. McArdle released one of Vee’s ankles and swung a fist at Tierney. ‘Get back!’
He turned again, looked at Vee dangling over the window, and lost interest in tormenting her. He pulled her ankles in one quick sweep and dropped her back inside the flat. Tierney ran to her side and started to pat her back. She brushed his hand away.
McArdle watched the junkies, wiped his brow. He’d had some fun with them and he knew there was no other reason to come here, unless he was making money. He reached inside his jacket, removed the envelope with the cash and threw it in front of them. ‘Here . . . don’t spend it all in one shop.’
Vee was still shaking as Tierney lunged forward and ripped into the envelope. He tipped the contents into his hands, spread the notes apart, counted. ‘What’s this, Deil?’
McArdle loomed over them, spoke: ‘Your money, isn’t it.’
‘But . . . we agreed more.’
McArdle adjusted his jacket, brushed down his sleeves. ‘That was before.’
‘Before what?’
McArdle leaned over, pointed. ‘How much do you think it costs to keep a kid? Eh? I’m forking out a small fortune on fucking nappies and rusks and Cow and Gate this and that!’
Tierney put the money back in the envelope. ‘We agreed more.’
‘Are you complaining?’ He approached the pair again.
Vee spoke: ‘We agreed.’
‘Well, if you’ve got a better offer, I can always take the money back.’ McArdle reached out for the envelope. Vee snatched it and rose. She stared at McArdle; he could see the veins pulsing in her neck. ‘Nah, didn’t think you had,’ he said.
McArdle turned for the door. As he went, Tierney and Vee held the envelope between them and watched him.
Tierney spoke: ‘That’s us quits.’
McArdle raised a hand above his head.
‘We’re quits!’ shouted Vee.
McArdle turned, stared at them. ‘If you say so.’ He took two steps forward, locked his fingers briefly, then stretched his arms, palms out towards them. ‘What a way to settle your debts . . . You people disgust me.’
He unlocked his fingers and spat at them.
Tierney and Vee didn’t move.
Chapter 29
BARRY TIERNEY LEANED INTO THE bar, raised himself on the little brass rail that skirted its base. The barmen were ignoring him.
‘Prick’s not wanting to serve us, Vee.’
Vee twiddled the black straw in her vodka and Coke. She looked uncomfortable in the George Street style-bar, twitching and jerking at her new blouse.
This part of town was for people with money to spend, lots of money. It was for the bank workers and the young professionals, thought Tierney. They didn’t want him there; they hated him and he hated them back.
‘Hey, you going to serve me?’ he shouted.
One barman was polishing a glass, looked over to Tierney and sighed. The action sparked something in the junkie. He wanted to take the glass from the barman’s hand and thrust it in his face. The bastard, the cheeky bastard looking down his nose at me, he thought.
‘Look at this, Vee . . . He’s talking to his boss.’
Vee put down her glass, slapped the bar. ‘Hey, you serving here?’
The bar staff looked around them, approached Vee and Tierney. ‘If you don’t keep the noise down, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Eh, what you on about?’ said Tierney. ‘I’m just trying to get a few drinks in here.’
The barman who had been polishing the glass rolled eyes, said, ‘I think, perhaps, you’ve had enough, sir.’
‘Oh do you, perhaps?’ Tierney spat out the last word. Some flecks of spittle landed on the barman’s black waistcoat.
‘Right, that’s it. Out!’ The other one pushed forward. He slid past the cappuccino machine and opene
d up the bar counter. He stood hands on hips as he called over the door stewards.
‘Fuck this,’ said Tierney. He launched himself at the man behind the bar. He could feel himself being pulled back as he lunged and immediately realised the door steward had caught a hold of him.
‘Right, don’t make this hard on yourself.’ He sounded Australian, or South African; he was foreign.
‘Get your hands off me, you’re not even Scottish . . . Get back to your own fucking country.’
Vee threw back the last of her vodka and Coke and joined the melee. She smashed the glass over the steward’s head and screamed, ‘Leave him, you bastard!’
Shrieks went up around the bar. Chairs scraped on the floor as people moved away.
‘Get them out! Get them out!’ shouted the manager.
People ran to left and right, headed for the edges of the room to be free of the scene. A group of reinforcements – more stewards – arrived from the front door and Tierney and Vee were bundled onto the pavement. Tierney struggled with the men in black jackets, lashed out and kicked. As Vee was dragged she lost one of her new shoes and removed the other to hit at her attackers.
‘Fuck off . . . Bastards!’
When they got them far enough from the bar, the stewards dropped them on the ground and backed off. They brushed down their jackets as they went.
Tierney ranted, ‘You’re fucking dead, you are!’
‘Calm down, just calm down,’ said the biggest of them. ‘We’ve called the police and they’re on their way.’
Tierney got up, jutted his head at him. ‘You’re dead! Do you know who I am? Barry Tierney, ask about town. I’ll be back to do you in.’
Vee swung her bag as the men retreated indoors, shaking their heads. ‘You’ve lost it, love,’ said one of them.
‘Let the cops deal with them,’ said another.
Tierney watched them go inside. The blood rushed in his veins. He felt his adrenaline spike and looked around for something to throw at the window. There was nothing, no brick or an ashtray even. He scoped about – further up the street there was a chrome stanchion, outside the next bar. He ran over and unhooked the red cord. The stanchion was heavy; he struggled with it down the street but somehow managed to get it onto his shoulder.
‘Vee, get ready to run. I’ll show those bastards.’
Tierney edged closer to the window and started to spin with the stanchion in his arms. When he felt he had enough momentum he released his grip. The noise from the smashing window was like the one o’clock gun. Tierney and Vee ran off, laughing and jeering.
The pair made for Hanover Street and kept going until they were completely out of breath.
‘Did you see their faces?’ said Tierney.
Vee struggled to stay upright, gasped. ‘Yeah . . . Total fucking idiots. You showed them, Barry.’
‘I showed them.’ Tierney felt proud of himself; no one was going to talk to him like that. It was a great feeling to have a few quid in your pocket. He didn’t want to think about how he’d come by it, but that didn’t matter now. He was free of his debts to the Deil, he’d scored enough to see him through the weeks ahead and he had a new set of clothes and more money in his pocket to spend.
He stepped into the road and flagged a black cab. ‘Come on.’
‘Where to?’
‘The night is young, so it is.’
Vee giggled as she was dragged into the cab. Tierney gave the driver the name of another bar – he couldn’t sober up. Not now. As he sat in the back of the cab his mind returned to the events of the last few days and he felt his bolster subside.
‘What is it?’ said Vee.
‘Nothing.’
She knew well what it was, he thought. As he looked at her, eyes slow-blinking, out of it as ever, he knew she was going to be a constant reminder to him. He looked away, out to the road, the hum of street lights and the blur of shopfronts and takeaways on Broughton Street. He felt sick – not physically, deeper than that. He felt sick in his soul.
‘Barry, what the fuck’s up now?’ said Vee.
‘Shut it,’ he snapped.
The driver’s eyes appeared in the rear-view mirror. Tierney flagged him down. ‘It’s okay, mate. No bother here.’
Vee tugged at his arm. ‘You’ve gone all moody again.’
‘I told you to shut it.’
The driver was getting anxious, kept looking back.
Vee spat at him, ‘You’re not telling me to—’
He snapped, grabbed her head in his hands and screamed in her face, ‘I told you, shut it. I don’t want to hear your fucking voice again.’
The cab screeched to a halt. ‘That’s it!’ shouted the driver.
Tierney watched the cabbie open his door and walk round to his side of the street. He pulled the handle and opened up. ‘You can walk from here.’
Tierney squeezed Vee’s head in his hands, then banged it off the seat. ‘That was your fucking fault. It’s always your fault!’
As he got out he eyeballed the cabbie, who reached behind him and helped Vee to her feet. ‘Hey, she can walk herself . . .’ Tierney watched the cab driver help Vee and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He let out a fist that connected with the back of the man’s head and he fell to the ground. Where he lay Tierney started to kick him; when he tired of kicking he started to stamp on his head. Soon he was too exhausted to continue, panting and wheezing, his chest aching.
When Vee got out of the car she staggered over the cabbie. He spluttered blood as he tried to speak, raised a hand.
Vee looked at Barry and then she brought her foot down on the cab driver’s face. There was an audible crunch, the breaking of bone, and she laughed out.
Barry watched her for a moment. She was lining up another blow, balancing herself by holding the taxi’s roof to give her more purchase. She looked enraged. Barry wondered why.
‘Vee, pack it in.’
She didn’t listen as she tried to drive her heel into the cabbie’s face.
‘Vee . . . leave it,’ Barry roared, but the words had no effect.
A crowd had started to gather, a few muttering and gesturing to others to intervene.
Barry knew it was time to move on. He grabbed Vee’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘Go where?’
‘Away . . . away from here.’
Chapter 30
THE FIRST THING THAT STRUCK DI Rob Brennan about the inside of Carly Donald’s room was how unremarkable it was. He didn’t know what he had expected to find in there but the familiarity of the place seemed to dig at his heart. On the small single bed there was a pink bedspread that was covered in little mauve flowers; it looked like something Sophie would have once picked out, before she had entered the phase where she wanted everything to be black. Over the window was a draw-blind with butterflies on the edges and a long pull tassel. Everything seemed so normal, so simple, almost like a film set or from a TV show for teenage girls.
Brennan eased himself in. The place smelled of lavender and vanilla. He wondered if it was a trait of every girl to have a room smelling just like the first floor of Jenners. He eased up to her desk. There was a red organiser for pens and pencils; she had tied red elastic bands – like the ones the postman drops – into a little ball. Brennan picked up the ball, rolled it in his palm and started to squeeze it. The item was a connection to Carly and he felt some strange power holding it.
‘Okay, Carly . . . What am I looking for?’
Brennan opened a drawer. There was some writing paper in there, pink again, and more pens, felt-tips. He removed the cap from one – it had dried out; the entire collection was probably left over from when she was younger. Sixteen was too old for colouring in.
There was nothing else that caught Brennan’s attention on the desk. He closed the drawer and moved to the wardrobe. A tall, freestanding pine box that looked like flat-pack but was probably more substantial. He opened up and immediately smelled a stronger waft of perfume. It was a differ
ent smell, not rose – apples, maybe. He liked it. The first thing that caught Brennan’s attention in the wardrobe was a school blazer. He took it out. The jacket was well kept; it had been brushed regularly and looked in good shape. The braid on the sleeves was yellow and bright. It struck him that dressing children in uniforms was a strange thing to be doing at this stage of human development. It was almost tribal. In Edinburgh, the rich kids stood out a mile in their uniforms, but then, that was the idea, wasn’t it? When you were paying £25,000 a year for your kid’s education, you wanted it to be as conspicuous as the Bentley Continental you drove to work.
Brennan looked further into the wardrobe. A lot of jeans. Simple tops, spots and prints. There were some boots beneath the clothes, grey suede. Brennan thought they were called pixie boots but he was no good with fashion. There were some trainers too, sports socks rolled into a ball and a hockey stick propped against the back. He closed the door.
The DI returned to the bed, sat. He hadn’t found anything worthwhile, but he had found something of Carly. The room had presence, she had put her stamp on it and Brennan drew on that, took it in. She may not have been there in person but Carly had made an indelible impression on him. He felt an attachment now; he understood more about her. She seemed a middle-of-the-road type; some might say plain. Her dress sense was unimaginative, but then she was only sixteen. Had she had time yet to fully form her personality, develop a style of her own?
On a whim, Brennan looked under the bed. There were some magazines, Heat, OK!, Closer, and some books on childbirth. He rubbed the cover of one – the pages were dog-eared. There were items in the book ringed in red marker pen. Baby chairs and prams, clothing. Was this the action of a girl who was going to see her child adopted? Carly had wanted to keep the baby, he sensed it, knew it. Brennan replaced the magazines and books, got off the bed and smoothed down the bedspread.