Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘Okay, Maw.’

  ‘What did you do with the blades, yours and the boy’s?’

  ‘They’re up in my room, wrapped up in a towel under my bed.’

  Maw’s hand was raised again and brought down with force but Scrapper wriggled away so all she connected with was a leg. ‘You brought them here? Into my house? Ya stupid wee article, ye!’ She stepped across him to gain better access in order to rain further slaps about his body as he curled up to avoid them, arms wrapped around his head. Finally Maw Jarvis straightened, panting. She wiped the back of one hand across her mouth and then said to her eldest, ‘Jerry, find they blades and get rid of them.’

  ‘Where, Maw?’

  She turned her dark eyes on him and said, ‘Do I need to think of everything? Just make sure they can never be found. Fuck’s sake, if brains was dynamite, you boys wouldn’t have enough to blow your nose.’

  Jerry left the kitchen to collect the knives, leaving Maw with Scrapper still on the floor. The woman sighed, pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, her anger spent. Scrapper picked himself up, his movements sluggish, knowing there was something yet to tell her. And he was not looking forward to it.

  ‘There’s something else, Maw,’ he began, edging towards the door, ready to flee if she got her dander up again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The boy Himes that I did. Him and Skooshie work for McClymont.’

  Maw Jarvis blinked once and stared at her son. Scrapper watched her, waiting for her fury to explode again. She sighed hard and looked away. ‘Okay, so we can expect something in return. I don’t want you going out unless you’ve got one of your brothers with you, understand? McClymont spent too long with that wee bastard Vizzini, so he’s got this Sicilian thing going on. Vendetta, Omerta, all that shit. He might want payback. And they’ll no be long working out it was you. You’re never out of the Corvus.’

  ‘We can handle them,’ Scrapper said confidently.

  ‘I don’t want to handle them, y’understand? We’ve been doing all right, making some cash. We don’t need a war with them getting in the way, clear? You stay around the house as much as you can and when you go out, take one of your brothers. At least one. And don’t go back to that club.’

  Scrapper looked crestfallen. ‘Aye, Maw.’

  She looked up at him and her expression softened. ‘Come here, son,’ she said, but Scrapper hesitated. ‘Come here, I said. I’m no gonnae hurt you.’ Scrapper moved forward slightly and she watched him, a welcoming smile on her lips. She held out her arms for him and he stepped closer. When she swung another powerful blow, this time with her right fist clenched, it connected with his jaw. He rocked back on his heels and she threw her left, snapping his head to one side. He spun round and landed on his hands and knees on the floor again. She rammed her foot against his backside and sent him sprawling onto his face.

  ‘You ever go after anyone without my say-so again, Scrapper, I’ll tear you apart, you get me? God knows what trouble your temper has got us in this time. You keep it under control in future, okay? And lay off the powder, too. That and your temper are gonnae get you killed one day. The only coke I hear of you takin better be out a bottle.’

  ‘Okay,’ Scrapper’s voice was muffled and she could hear a sob cracking it.

  ‘Now you stay there till I tell you to move, understand? And you think about what you’ve done.’

  ‘Okay, Maw,’ her son said and her lips stretched into a thin line as she stepped over him. Jerry came back down as she entered the hall, a towel bundled in his hands. He held it out to her as he reached the bottom stair. She took it, unwrapped the material and stared at the two knives, both smeared with blood.

  ‘We’re making a mistake here, Maw,’ said Jerry.

  Her eyes narrowed. Jerry had violence in him, a bit too much, she often thought, given his liking for inflicting pain, but he also had a brain. Her eldest was the smartest of the lot and if he said they were making a mistake, then they were. ‘What?’

  ‘Dumping the knife, the one the other lad used. You can use it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Deflect attention from Scrapper. The police will want this cleared up smartish. We can help them.’

  She stared at him and his calm brown eyes smiled back at her. She thought about what he said and knew he was right. She looked back at the knives again. ‘You touch them?’

  He gave her a look to tell her he was no fool. ‘Course not.’

  ‘What you thinking?’

  ‘I get rid of Scrapper’s blade, no bother, but I plank the other one. Then I steer the info to the polis. Let them find it.’

  ‘What about the other witnesses?’

  Jerry smiled a thin smile and she knew what he was thinking. They’d deal with any blabbermouths easily. A word here, a threat there. They’d soon understand that silence is the best policy. Jerry would see to it. The priority here had to be to keep that dickhead Scrapper out of the jail.

  ‘Do it,’ she said as she wrapped the knives up again and handed the bundle back to him. ‘And find Andy. We need to talk.’

  Frank Donovan didn’t see Bang Bang Maxwell until it was too late. It had been a long night and he was tired. One minute he was lost in his own worries, then he became aware of the large figure at his side, keeping pace with him. Instinctively, Donovan stepped to his left, hands coming out of his jacket, ready to fend off an attack. When he saw it was Maxwell, he put more distance between them and came to a halt, body tensed. You never knew which way Maxwell would jump. However, the big man drew his hands from the pockets of his thick wool coat and held them up in a placating gesture. The coat was very like the one Knight wore and Donovan wondered if they shopped in the same store.

  ‘Easy, my man,’ Maxwell said, his gravelly voice rumbling like a tipper truck, ‘I come in peace.’

  Donovan nodded, but remained on guard. Bang Bang Maxwell was a strong arm for Ray Neal, a money lender and all round piece of shit. However, he was the piece of shit Donovan owed money to. Maxwell was more to Ray than just a sidekick, though, for the dapper wee loan shark was the only openly gay ned in an underworld that was more than a little homophobic. It was ironic that two criminals could have a more stable relationship than a lot of cops Donovan knew. Including himself.

  ‘Ray’ll get his money, Maxwell,’ said Donovan, mentally berating himself for being so stupid as to borrow cash from a Tally man in the first place. But a series of nags with wooden legs and some losses at card games had meant he’d been behind on the mortgage and the power bills. He’d kept the mortgage arrears from Marie, but when Scottish Power cut off the electricity, there had been some strong words. He’d told her it was a mix-up and he’d get it sorted. He’d borrowed some cash from his sister to get the lights back on, but that was like putting a sticking plaster on a shotgun wound. He’d bled himself dry. The bank would just laugh in his face and he couldn’t bring himself to borrow from friends. Then he thought about Ray Neal. It had been a mistake that could cost him his job, if it got out.

  ‘Shoulda got it three days ago, Frank,’ said Maxwell, agreeably. He was always agreeable, was Maxwell. Until it was time to become disagreeable, and then he lived up to his nickname. Unlike The Beatles song, his hammer wasn’t silver, just a plain old black one from B&Q, but it did the trick all the same. A finger here, a toe there, maybe an arm. And the hits kept coming until the debt was paid.

  ‘He’ll get it,’ stressed Donovan.

  ‘He’d better, my man,’ said Maxwell, his tone matter-of-fact. ‘Because you know what Ray’s like when he doesn’t get his cally-dosh. He gets grouchy. And when he gets grouchy, he takes it out on a person. That person’s usually me, being the closest thing he’s got to a wife. And that makes me grouchy. And when I get grouchy…’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Well, I expel my irritation with a bit of exercise.’

  Donovan knew Maxwell was no jogger. ‘I just need some time,’ he said.

  Maxwell drew in his breath. ‘Ah, see – that means
the debt’ll just get larger. You know how it works. APR’s a bitch.’

  ‘Two weeks, I’ll have it for you in two weeks.’ Donovan’s voice had taken on a pleading tone. He didn’t like it much.

  Maxwell stared at him. He was still being agreeable, but Donovan could see something beginning to harden there. ‘Doesn’t sound like good business, my man. You can’t pay it now, what guarantee have I got you’ll be able to pay two weeks down the line?’ Donovan couldn’t answer. Somehow, he didn’t think Maxwell expected him to answer. Finally, the man tutted. ‘But you know, I’m too soft-hearted for my own good. One week. This time next week. On this very spot. Seven days. And payment must be in full, otherwise… well, you know the rest.’ Maxwell smiled. On anyone else and under any other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant smile. But not on him and not here in a deserted street, with a gentle snow beginning to fall and traffic sliding past on Cowcaddens. He gave Donovan a small shrug, then nodded. Donovan swore if he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have tipped it before he walked away in the direction of Port Dundas Street.

  The flakes drifted down around Donovan as he wondered where the hell he was going to get one thousand pounds in the next few days.

  Rab was silent as Davie drove him into the city. Davie knew he was still burning over his refusal to talk to the actor, so he let him fume. He’d come around, eventually. They had known one another too long to let something like that come between them. He was glad of the silence, for although the bulk of the snow had been cleared overnight from the main roads, and pushed into mounds lining the gutters on either side, there was still enough to demand that he focus all his attention on his driving. Radio 2’s Sounds of the Sixties was playing softly on the radio, The Beatles and ‘I Feel Fine’. Rab liked to hear the show when he could. Davie didn’t mind, he had broad musical tastes. The dog was stretched out in the rear, half on his back, his legs extended and propped against the seat. They were queuing at traffic lights on Shettleston Road when Rab finally spoke.

  ‘They Jarvises are really getting out of hand,’ he said, his voice flat, as if he was forcing himself to speak. Davie did not reply. Rab went on. ‘We need to send a message. A strong message. One they’ll no forget.’ Davie watched for the traffic moving ahead and waited for Rab to say more. Finally, Rab said, ‘I need to know if you’re on board, Davie.’

  Davie was a hard man. He was the guy you wanted by your side when the fists flew and the bottles broke. But he was no killer. Joe Klein had always said that a killing had to be the final step and Davie had never yet taken it. That was why he didn’t use a gun or a knife. It would be too easy to cross the line. There had been times, oh, there had been times, but so far he had never killed any­one. He had come close to it at least twice – once during a street fight with a young man years before and then with his father – but on each occasion someone else had taken the final, fatal step. Some­thing told him that if he ever did kill a man, he’d be lost forever. But young Dickie Himes had been one of their own. Davie barely knew him but he recalled a young man with a quick smile. The primal part of him hissed that restitution had to be made, the more logical part of him urged caution. And it spoke in Joe Klein’s voice.

  ‘I’m going to do one of the brothers.’ Rab’s words came out suddenly and Davie glanced at him, knowing the shock had flashed on his face. Rab saw the look and said, ‘A message has to be sent, Davie.’

  ‘That’s not a message, Rab, that’s a declaration of war.’

  ‘Then it’s a declaration of war. Maybe it’s time. You have to clean house now and then, Davie, you know that. The rubbish has to be taken out.’

  Davie looked back at the traffic, saw it was beginning to move. He slipped the car into gear, took off the handbrake, edged forward. ‘It’s not a proportional response,’ he said. Proportional response – it was a phrase often used by Joe the Tailor. It was a politician’s way of saying an eye for an eye. Someone hits you, you hit back. It was expected. It was understood. And generally it ended there. Tit for tat. They had killed a low level player and by rights Rab should do the same, but he was intent on hitting back harder.

  ‘Fuck proportional response,’ said Rab, his voice harsh. ‘I’m having one of they bastards dead in the fuckin street. They’ve gone too far this time. They’ve been like a fuckin flea nipping at my balls for too long and I’ve let them get away with it. It stops now.’

  They were through the lights now and Davie could see the pub ahead. Davie’s silence seemed to infuriate Rab even further. ‘Fuck’s sake, Davie, you no got nothing to say?’

  Davie knew the Jarvis clan had to be taught a lesson, they had been getting out of hand recently and Dickie’s death did merit some kind of payback. But what Rab was talking about was too much. ‘What do you want me to say, Rab?’

  ‘That you’re with me.’

  Davie turned right into the street alongside the pub and came to a halt. He switched off the engine and sat back in the driver’s seat. He sat very still. Rab watched him. Rab waited. Finally, Davie said, ‘You’re going too far. Joe would never…’

  ‘Joe’s dead, Davie. Fifteen years, he’s been dead. Luca killed him.’

  Davie swivelled his eyes around to face his pal. ‘And you killed Luca.’

  Rab held Davie’s gaze, but remained silent. A junkie had aimed the gun but Rab had pulled the trigger. It had remained unspoken between them for five years, but Davie knew. He had never mourned the death, for he had become convinced that the little Sicilian had killed Joe Klein. They’d originally thought it was a scroat who Joe had managed to gut before he died. But it had been Luca, Joe’s old pal. There was no proof, of course, but Davie knew in his bones it was true. It had taken him over ten years to work it out. So, although Rab had never admitted he was behind Luca’s assassination, Davie was glad he’d done it, for if he’d discovered hard evidence of the man’s guilt, he might have been forced to break his own rules. Joe might have promoted the need for a proportional response but he also said that some men just needed killing.

  ‘You’ll put the city up like a balloon, Rab,’ he warned.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Rab. ‘But I need to know where you stand. You behind me or what?’

  Behind me, Davie noted. He didn’t pick him up on it, merely said, ‘I’m beside you, Rab. Same as always. But I won’t be part of a killing.’

  Davie neither liked nor trusted Stringer. It wasn’t because he didn’t talk much, for McCall said very little himself, it was something similar to how he felt around young Joseph. Rab had found the man after a violent episode in Girvan, on the Ayrshire coast. Davie didn’t know the full details, only that Stringer had come through in a pinch. He stood in the corner of the small office, his scalp, hair scraped clear, gleaming in the fluorescent light, his powerful arms folded across his chest. He worked out regularly. Davie had seen him at Bennie’s Gym in Bridgeton, working the bag, lifting the weights. He said nothing during the brief meeting that morning, barely moving, just listening. Every now and then, his lips peeled back to reveal some startlingly white, very even teeth. Davie was the only one other than Rab to be seated, the chair against the wall, behind the other men in the room, the dog lying at his feet.

  There were three others, giving the tiny room an even more claustrophobic feeling than usual. Wee Jinty, the cleaner, was working away in the bar, her bucket clanging as she joined in with ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ on the radio. The cleaner wasn’t so much singing along with Elton John as competing. And Jinty was winning. What she lacked in tone, she made up for in enthusiasm, and she screeched the words out like a cat in heat.

  ‘Christ, Jinty’s in good voice the day,’ said Kid Snot, ending his observation with his customary snort.

  ‘Kid, get out there and tell her to pipe down,’ said Rab. ‘Cannae hear myself fart here for her wailing.’

  The Kid grinned and stepped out of the office. A few moments later the music was cut off, as was the off-key accompaniment. When the Kid returned he was
still grinning. ‘Wasnae best pleased, Rab.’

  ‘Aye, but Elton sends his thanks,’ said Jock Barr. Thanks to his love of chocolate, he was known to everyone in the room as Choccie Barr. He, like Kid Snot, had long ago decided the best way to deal with such a nickname was to go along with it.

  ‘So,’ said Rab, loudly, bringing them back to the matter in hand, ‘we all keep on our toes, okay? We don’t know whether last night was a one-off or the start of something, so until we do know, we stay alert.’

  ‘Aye, Rab,’ said Fat Boy McGuire, the reason for his nickname being evident in the bulge over his belt. ‘Might be nothing, right enough, one of they things. But cannae be too careful, know what I’m sayin?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kid Snot, the youngest voice in the room, ‘but they bastarts are well out of order, so they are.’

  ‘Skooshie and Dickie were punting gear there, though,’ said Choccie, always the most level-headed of the crew. ‘Let’s no forget that. The Corvus is a Jarvis place, we all know that. They shouldn’t have been punting gear there.’

  ‘Davie and the Kid’ll have a word with Skooshie the day about that,’ said Rab. The Kid nodded. Davie remained still.

  Fat Boy asked, ‘Anybody know how Skooshie’s taking it?’

  ‘He’ll be gutted,’ said the Kid.

  ‘So he should be,’ said Choccie, his voice flat. ‘He shoulda known better than to be workin a Jarvis place. Stupid wee bastard got his mate plunged.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Rab, knowing Choccie was right, ‘Davie and the Kid’ll make that clear to him. But what’s done is done, right? Now we deal with it. You lot pass the message on – stay well away from any Jarvis sites, right? They see any of that crowd up ahead, they cross the street, right?’

  He paused to allow comments, but Davie knew none was expected. They were followers, every one of them. Luca used to say that there were two types of guys – the sheep and the sheep dogs. Most people were sheep, running in flocks, waiting for the sheep dogs to herd them and point them in the right direction. Rab was a sheep dog. Davie wasn’t a sheep, he never ran with the flock, but he wasn’t a sheep dog either. He was aware that Rab was watching him carefully. However, it was Choccie who said, ‘So, what we gonnae do about it?’