They fell silent again. Davie looked at the dog, who was still on the lead but had settled on the floor, one front leg stretched out in front of him, the other curled up against his chest. He was watching Vari as she turned her attention to a paper hankie she was rolling around in her hand. Davie tried to find words, but they eluded him. He had little to say at the best of times. When emotions were involved, he had even less.
‘I can’t take it any more, Davie,’ she said, softly.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘You’re not here, not really. Even when you’re sitting right there, even when we’re in bed, you’re not really there, are you?’
Davie didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t think she expected one.
‘You’ve been good to me, you really have,’ she said. ‘Ever since… well, your dad.’
Davie shifted his feet, suddenly acutely uncomfortable. The dog sat up as he moved, his head raised, watching him. Davie leaned down and gave him a reassuring rub behind the ear. His hand shook slightly. Mentioning Danny McCall always hit him like that. It was his father who had beaten and raped Vari, just to draw him out. She had moved in with him the following year. It was something that just happened and he didn’t oppose it. Sometimes it was good to come home to someone.
‘And I’ve tried to be happy and sometimes I really was. But I kept coming back down to earth when I realised that you weren’t with me, you were just in the room.’
The sound of a car horn in the street made her look towards the window.
‘That’s my dad,’ she said, standing up. ‘He’s been waiting out there for ages, so he has. For you to come home. I didn’t want you to come back and find me gone, you know? Didn’t seem right.’ She paused, looking at her hand, and Davie could see the tissue had been reduced to little more than a pile of fragments. A slight smile plucked at the corners of her mouth and a soft breath slid from her nostrils. Perhaps she was wondering what that mound of shredded paper signified. She closed her fingers around it and thrust her hand into her pocket. She crossed the room and stopped to pat the dog’s head.
‘What’s his name?’ She asked.
He hadn’t thought that far ahead. The name Abe came into his head first, but Abe had died two years before. He’d spent most of his life with a family in Easterhouse, who had taken him while Davie was in jail, and he’d never had the heart to take him away from them. But Davie still thought of him as his. He wouldn’t call this dog Abe, though. That wouldn’t be right. ‘I don’t know yet.’
‘He needs a name. All dogs need a name.’
She straightened and gazed steadily into his eyes. She laid a hand on his face.
‘Davie, I love you and part of me always will,’ she said quietly, moisture filling her eyes. ‘But you’ll never love me. Because you can’t. You can’t let go, can you? And I can’t compete with a ghost.’
She held his gaze for a moment, then brushed her fingers along the side of his face, caressing the scar that ran from his cheek to his chin. ‘These run deep, don’t they? He cut more out of you than just skin that day.’
And then she was gone, brushing past him at speed. He heard a sob break from her in the hallway as she hefted her cases and then the front door closed. Davie listened to the footsteps hurrying down the stone steps. He still had not moved. He stood in the darkness of the living room, the dog waiting for him to do something as he listened to the silence that had taken Vari’s place. He thought about watching her climb into her father’s car from the window, but what would be the point of that? So he stood there, letting the silence and solitude wrap around him like old acquaintances.
SATURDAY
‘He’s a cokehead,’ said Davie, his voice flat.
‘I know he’s a cokehead,’ said Rab, his mouth full of toast, ‘but he’s a cokehead with loads of dosh.’
Rab faced Davie across the table in the kitchen of his Bothwell home. It was a big house set in expansive gardens, situated among other big houses with expansive gardens. Rab liked Davie to come over and drive him to the pub on Shettleston Road he used as a base. The Black Bird had been one of Joe’s places back in the day and Rab had always liked it. When Joe was murdered, his old pal Luca Vizzini had taken over, but he tended to stick to his café on Duke Street. When Luca was, in turn, shot to death – the grip of Glasgow’s underworld figures on life often proving tenuous – Rab adopted the pub as his headquarters. His name did not appear on any paperwork connected to the site for, as with his other legitimate enterprises, there were intermediaries. The only traceable source of income he had was a builder’s yard in Springburn. Davie doubted that the declared profits from that small business covered the price of this six-bedroom house. But then, that’s what clever accountants were for.
He could hear a radio playing elsewhere, Bernadette, probably, for she loved her music. He recognised the hillbilly strains of ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ mixing with a dance beat. He wondered if she was dancing to it somewhere, then recalled she was pregnant again, so maybe she wouldn’t. She looked good with it, a thought that had risen unbidden when she’d answered the door that morning. But then Bernadette always looked good. Her soft Irish lilt had invited him in, her dancing eyes, as usual, inviting other thoughts. She made him feel uncomfortable, right from the first time they’d met. He sensed there was an offer in the way she looked at him, in the way she smiled, in the way her hands would casually brush his. Davie was never sure of these things, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling she was letting him know that she was attracted to him. He’d vowed never to act on it – Rab was his mate, and, along with Bobby Newman, his longest-standing ally. He’d managed to keep to that vow, too.
Until, the previous October, he broke it.
Davie felt the guilt stab at him as she opened the door. If she felt the same there was no sign. Her eyes were warm, sparkling as usual. Though she was as welcoming as ever, she drew the line at admitting the dog into her pristine home, though Davie had given him a bath first thing that morning and even blow-dried his hair with a dryer Vari had left behind, although he’d never tell anyone that. The dog had submitted to both indignities with good grace, perhaps understanding that they were necessary. He was now a handsome creature, completely transformed from the hungry and filthy animal of the previous night. He was thin and still had a haunted look in his eyes, but the soap and water had revealed traces of brown in his coat, and a white mark on his chest, shaped like an arrowhead. Davie had still not decided on a name, knowing that one would present itself sooner or later. He’d placed an old duvet and cushions on the floor beside his bed, which was where Abe used to sleep. But the dog, who had taken up a position on the rug before the gas fire, didn’t move. Davie left him, wondering if he would make his way through during the night, but when he heard no movement he got up and crept back to the living room, to ensure the animal was comfortable. He was in a deep sleep where Davie had left him, his body jerking as if he was receiving tiny electric shocks. Davie carried the bedding from the bedroom and laid it beside dog, then went back to bed. And his own dream…
A windswept harbour.
The flash of a knife.
Blood-red streamers, caught in the wind.
Green eyes, accusing.
A voice he knew.
A voice he loved.
… You could have saved me.
… You could have moved faster.
… Sooner…
… You could have saved me.
And then Vari’s voice, overlapping.
I can’t compete with a ghost.
He woke up, shivering, thinking she was there in the room with him, hearing a voice, an echo, a memory that faded and vanished. But he didn’t know whether it was Audrey or Vari and that confused him.
Davie led the dog to the rear of the Bothwell house, where he could run around and explore Rab’s large garden in safety. It had high fences all around, and carefully positioned CCTV cameras covering the perimeter. The dog would not get out without being s
een, although the cameras were there to detect anyone getting in. As Rab’s stature in The Life grew, so had his paranoia. Davie doubted anyone would come after him in his own home, that wasn’t the way things were done, but Rab wasn’t so sure. Maybe he was right. The Life had changed over the years, drugs had seen to that. The old rules – Joe Klein’s rules – had been swept away, many of them by Rab himself. In Joe’s day, you did not involve civilians, particularly women or children. Family members were off limits. Not these days, though. Heroin had made The Life dirtier, meaner, just as Joe had predicted it would.
The snow had blown itself out overnight, though the forecast warned it wasn’t away for long. It was a bright, clear, crisp morning and through the kitchen’s wide picture window Davie could see the dog romping in the garden with Rab’s daughter Lucia, named in deference to Luca Vizzini. Rab’s son was named after Joseph Klein, which pleased Davie. He could see the boy now, standing on the sidelines watching his little sister shriek and laugh as the dog chased her through the snow. Davie had been concerned at first about the kids playing with the dog, but after a few minutes he saw that the animal had a kind and loving nature. Davie was uncomfortable around kids, but he found Lucia engaging and bright. The boy, though, was something different. He was around 13 now, nine years or so older than his sister, but there was more than just years separating them. It wasn’t that he was introverted, it wasn’t that he was shy, those traits Davie could understand. It was just that there was something… off about him. He was always polite, but there was something about the kid that rankled and Davie didn’t know what it was.
Rab was eating breakfast when Bernadette showed him into the kitchen. She said she’d leave them alone, her hand caressing Davie’s upper arm as she spoke. Rab didn’t seem to notice. Rab looked tired, but then he’d been awake since he’d heard the news of Dickie’s murder, making calls, gathering forces. Davie nodded when asked if he’d heard what had happened and Rab looked out the window at his children. He knew about Paddy’s death, knew Davie had taken the dog. Davie felt he didn’t want to discuss the situation just yet, so he remained silent. Then Rab said Michael Lassiter wanted to see him again.
Davie shook his head. ‘Cokeheads can’t be trusted.’
‘Fuck, Davie, the man just wants to talk. And pay for the privilege.’
‘Talk about what?’
Rab shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. But did you hear me when he said he’d pay you just for a gab?’
Davie remained silent. Rab had become increasingly money-motivated over the years. Maybe it was something to do with having a family, not that Davie would ever know anything about that. Rab had changed, not just since fatherhood. He saw himself as a man apart from the rank and file and even though he would never presume to order Davie about, he still saw him as a subordinate. This idea of Davie trekking over to Bothwell regularly to drive back into the city, as if he was some sort of bodyguard, was an example. Rab had told him it was because he was the only person he could completely trust and Davie knew that was part of it. But there was more. One day the big fella would step over a line and the two old friends would have a conversation. When Davie saw Rab’s brow furrow with irritation, he wondered if that moment had come.
‘Fuck’s sake, Davie, just do it, will you? Won’t hurt to spend half an hour with the bloke, take his money and then that’s it.’
‘We’ve got more important things to deal with, Rab.’
‘Aye, but half an hour, Davie. That’s all, thirty fuckin minutes, have a coffee and a fancy biscuit, hear what he’s got to say. Won’t hurt you. He’s a customer, Davie, he’s gonnae be here for a coupla months. Think of it as public relations. And you can get Joe his autograph while you’re at it.’
Davie sighed. Rab sighed. ‘Come on, Davie – what harm would there be in talking to a Hollywood movie star for half an hour? Eh?’
Davie didn’t know but he could not shake off the feeling that nothing good would come of it.
Maw Jarvis had been a head-turner as a young woman, and as she grew older, she remained strikingly attractive. Her hair was still dark, matching her eyes, complexion and, if truth be told, her temperament. She was never what anyone would call vivacious, having always had a mean temper and a tongue rough enough to strip the hide off a water buffalo. Her given name was Eunice, but no-one had called her that for years. Peter Jarvis had been a good husband to her and she had loved him in her way, but she had never been a one-man woman and had enjoyed a succession of lovers since the early days of their marriage. Peter hadn’t minded – he was not the faithful type either. He often said that he thought monogamy was a property board game. Although they were each getting it regularly elsewhere, they still found time for each other, so when she started having kids he called her Maw and she called him Paw and the names stuck. It was the closest they ever came to showing affection, even though their sex life – both marital and extra – remained active right up until Paw Jarvis dropped of a heart attack at the breakfast table one morning. The night before had been particularly enthusiastic, involving some amyl nitrate that one of Maw’s contacts down south had provided. The poppers had helped stimulate their libidos to such an extent that the friction they generated could’ve lit up the city. Maw often wondered if the drug had brought on Paw’s death, but felt no guilt. He was a big boy – a very big boy, if truth be told – and no-one had forced him to snap the vial and inhale. The resultant head rush and increased blood flow did the rest – five times. It wasn’t a record for them but, hey, they weren’t spring chickens anymore.
On Paw’s death a few of the players thought they could move in on his patch, she being a burd and all, but Maw soon showed them what she was made of. Backed up by her four sons, she literally carved herself a slice of the city’s drug trade, working at first from her council house in Possil. She and her boys ruled the streets of Milton and Saracen, even as far as Maryhill. If there was a drug being sold on those streets, she was behind it. The money was cleaned up through various legit enterprises, including Club Corvus. And it was that establishment which exercised her attention now.
‘What did you do with your clothes?’ She asked her youngest son. Scrapper sat at the kitchen table in their home, shovelling down a bowl of corn flakes. She was irritated, but she wasn’t going to show it.
‘Burned them,’ he said. He appeared unconcerned about the events of the previous night. That pissed her off even more.
‘Good,’ she said. She had brought her boys up well. That kind of killing was a messy affair and Scrapper’s clothes would be covered in the dead boy’s blood. No amount of washing would cleanse the fabric, so the only thing to do was put a match to them. ‘Anybody see you after?’
‘Some junkie, but he’ll no say nothin. A lassie in the lane, but she didn’t get a good look at me.’
Maw Jarvis nodded, making him think she was satisfied with that. They might need to get the names of the junkie and the girl, have someone pay them a visit, but that could be dealt with later. Even if they named her boy, there would still be an ID Parade and they could be got at before then. She stood beside her son, watching him eat his breakfast, then glanced at her eldest, Jerry, who was eyeing her with interest. Stick-thin, with a scholar’s face, a smile glinted behind his glasses and she knew why. He knew her well enough to know that her anger was rising and was waiting for it to explode.
‘That all that saw you?’ She asked.
Scrapper’s hand paused as he raised his spoon to his mouth, his mother’s tone signalling there was something he didn’t know. ‘Aye,’ he said, but there was the hint of a question there.
‘You sure?’
Scrapper looked at his brother across the table, saw there was no help coming from that direction. ‘Aye, I’m sure, Maw.’
The slap across the back of Scrapper’s head cracked through the air. Maw Jarvis was strong and she had felled many a big man with a punch. This was an open-palmed strike, but it was still enough to send her son flying from the table onto the f
loor.
Maw leaned over him and screamed, ‘There was a fuckin dosser there, ya stupid wee bastard! Polis think he might’ve seen the whole thing. What the fuck were you thinking, doing that in my club? Killing a boy, Jesus! And with witnesses?’
Scrapper blinked at her, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. ‘It just happened, Maw, honest. Him and his mate were puntin and we’d told them to quit it before, so it was just gonnae be a wee reminder of who’s boss, you know? But then he cut Marty and…’
‘Marty’s cut?’
‘Aye, boy had one of they flick knife things, opened his face.’
‘Bad?’
‘Aye, pretty bad.’
‘What did you do wi’ him?’
‘Got Stewie to take him to the Royal and…’
‘The fuckin hospital? What the fuck were you thinkin?’ She raised her hand again, spittle flying from her lips as her anger rose further.
Scrapper cringed. ‘S’okay, Maw – Stewie told them it happened in an alley up Sauchiehall Street, made a police report and everything. Gave a description of three guys. Made it all up. We even went up there, smeared some of Marty’s blood on the snow. We thought that was best, throw them off the track. I mean, if Stewie and Marty was involved in the Club Corvus thing, why would they go to the hospital, make an official report, you know?’
Maw let her hand hover for a few moments while she thought it over. What Scrapper said made some sense, but it was still risky. Scrapper should have come to her first and they would’ve found a tame GP to stitch Marty up. It was done now, though. It would have to be dealt with.
She lowered her hand and said, ‘Did you leave that boy’s blade behind?’
‘No, took it with us.’
Good, she thought, that was using the nut. ‘What about his mate? You said him and a mate was punting gear. What about him?’
‘Skooshie Thompson. We’ll get him later.’
‘Naw, you’ll no. Don’t you go anywhere near that boy, understand? You stay the fuck away from him.’
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