Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘Ya bastard,’ said the man again, his teeth gritted against the pain. ‘Fuckin bastard.’

  Davie thought the man’s anger was misplaced, given he’d come at him with a gun, but he let it pass. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Lassiter opened his mouth to speak again but Davie shook his head to tell him to keep quiet and motioned for him to stay exactly where he was. With any luck, neither of these jokers had recognised him. There was a good chance, for Lassiter’s hat, scarf and high coat collar did obscure his features pretty well. But Davie didn’t want him to speak.

  Davie knelt and pressed the pistol muzzle against the man’s thigh. The man watched through eyes heavy with pain.

  ‘Who sent you?’ He asked again, his voice even. He might’ve been asking him the time.

  The man smiled through his agony. ‘You don’t do guns, McCall. We all know that. That’s why only one of us was tooled up.’

  Davie pressed the gun deeper into the flesh. ‘You sure about that?’

  The man looked very confident. ‘Aye.’

  Davie stared at him. ‘People change.’

  A shake of the head. ‘Not you. You’re known for it. No guns, no killing.’

  Davie was immobile for a few moments. Then he shrugged. ‘You’re right.’ As he removed the gun from the thigh and straightened, Davie was aware of the man relaxing. He hadn’t been that sure, then. Good to know. He looked down at him for a few moments then held the gun towards Lassiter, handle outwards. ‘Shoot him, Jim.’ Lassiter’s eyes widened but he took the gun from Davie’s grasp and turned it towards the man on the ground. The man tried to scramble away, but Davie placed his foot on his chest. ‘Jim’s not got my scruples.’

  Lassiter must’ve been shit scared, but he held the gun steady. He was playing a role. This was what he did. Davie had banked on his craft coming to the fore and he played the part to the hilt, the unwavering muzzle pointed directly at the man’s head. Even in the moonlight, Davie saw the injured man’s face blanche even further.

  ‘It was Maw Jarvis,’ the words came out in a rush. ‘Payback for Marko.’

  Davie soaked the information in. Something deep down knew all along it would happen. He was seen to be close to Rab, so he would be fitting payback for the death of her son. A proportional response. ‘Okay.’ He took the gun from Lassiter’s hand before stooping to retrieve the knife.

  The man winced as something shot through him and he pulled his hand closer, as if he could squeeze off the pain. ‘We’ll get you for this, McCall.’

  Davie turned slowly, his face blank, his blue eyes boring deep into the man’s face. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  The man tried to hold the stare but couldn’t. Few could. His head dropped. He’d heard the stories. He’d met a boy who would never walk again after he tussled with Davie McCall. This was supposed to be a quick in and out job, wait for McCall to come out on his nightly walk, then jump him somewhere nobody would see, give him a going over. But it had gone sour and now Davie McCall knew what he looked like. The way he saw it, his mate’s burst face and dislocated shoulder and his own broken hand and nose were a small price to pay.

  Davie retrieved the broken umbrella and told Lassiter to wipe it and the gun clean. Lassiter did as he was told. Davie turned back towards Paton Street, Lassiter followed. ‘Jesus, Davie…’

  ‘Shut up,’ Davie snapped.

  Davie wiped the handle of the broken umbrella with the hand­­kerchief then threw it over the fence into the bushes beside the railway track. The gun and the knife would have been harder to dispose of, which is why he left them. There was nothing to connect them to him or Lassiter so he felt it was safe. And neither of those guys was likely to be making a report to the police.

  He took the dog’s lead from Lassiter’s hand, looked down at the animal walking beside him. The dog was with him, but was not yet his. He was there, but not really present. He felt disappointment hollow out his chest.

  Was this how Vari felt?

  Lassiter was silent as they walked along Duke Street. Davie knew he couldn’t let him go anywhere alone, so he took him back to his flat, made them both a cup of coffee, made sure the dog had a long drink. The coffee tasted foul, but he didn’t think the actor would notice. Lassiter was trembling as he sat in the armchair nearest to the gas fire. He accepted the mug with an unsteady hand and carefully laid it on the coffee table before he spilled it. Davie sat on the couch and took a sip, watching Lassiter over the rim of the mug. Lassiter saw his look and gave him a weak smile.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said.

  Davie sipped his coffee. Lassiter had just watched him disable two men. He’d aimed a live firearm at one of them himself. He’d done well, but he was far from okay.

  ‘That was really something, Davie,’ Lassiter said. ‘I mean, I’ve never… well, you know.’

  Davie knew. Lassiter lived a world of make-believe violence. It was seldom anything like the real thing. There were no fancy moves, no exotic martial arts, no stunt men to roll with the punches. In the real world, in Davie’s world, it was quick and it was sharp and the idea was to do unto others before they did unto you.

  ‘And you…’ Lassiter said, then seemed to run out of words. He took a sip of his coffee, swallowed hard, as if trying to dislodge something in his throat. He shook his head. ‘You were amazing. Incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. You were so… efficient. Was there no fear?’

  Davie thought of a windswept harbour and saw again the blood streaming from Audrey’s throat and the words in her eyes.

  You could have saved me.

  Fear had made him hesitate that day. He had vowed he would never hesitate again. He banished the image and said, ‘Fear cripples.’

  ‘And what you said to that guy, when he said they’d get you – “I wouldn’t”.’ Lassiter’s accent had changed into a passable Glasgow as he repeated Davie’s words. He shook his head in admiration. ‘I mean… wow. So simple. Economical.’

  Davie sighed and set his mug down. ‘This isn’t a movie, Lassiter. You could’ve been killed out there.’

  Lassiter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I saw the way you operated, the way you moved. You knew what needed to be done. Fast. Single-minded. And your face was calm all the way through it. Like it was frozen. There was nothing there, no emotion. No hate. No fear. No rage. Nothing.’ Lassiter had leaned forward, his hand chopping the air in front of his face for emphasis. His trembling had stopped, replaced by eagerness. ‘You had a job to do and you did it. I don’t think I was in any danger at all tonight. Not with you there. That’s why I need you for this project. I don’t want this to be just another Hollywood movie, designer violence, style over substance. I want to do something real. I want it to be like that out there.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘This is my chance to do something with real meat. Okay, we’ve still got a story to tell and we’ve gotta get asses on seats, but I feel I’ve got a shot here. I can show them what I’ve got, inside me, you know? But I need you, Davie.’

  Davie shook his head. ‘Lassiter, listen to me. What you saw there was nothing. A boy died the other night, stabbed to death. Another died today, shot. It’s not going to end there. I’m going to be in the middle of it. I don’t want to be, but that – out there – means I’m in it whether I like it or not. Stay the hell away from me, understand? I’m not good for your health. I’m not good for anyone’s health.’

  But even as he spoke, he could tell that he wasn’t getting any­where. Lassiter had said it himself – he didn’t take no for an answer. He wasn’t used to people saying no. Davie sighed. It was a deep sigh, filled with resignation. A man should always know when he’s beaten, accept with grace and move on. That’s what Joe used to say.

  ‘Okay,’ said Davie with as much grace as he could muster. ‘Here’s the ground rules. One – you never come here again. I’ll come to you.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Two – I give you one week. We’ll go through the
script, I’ll point out what’s bollocks. We don’t discuss any real life situations, I don’t introduce you to anyone. And you never – never – mention what you saw tonight to your friends, lovers, agent, shrink, whatever.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Three – you’ll pay me £10,000.’

  Lassiter’s eyes widened at that. ‘For one week’s work?’

  ‘And it won’t be a full week – it’ll be one meeting, once a day. You have any more questions after that, tough.’

  Lassiter’s eagerness was evident, but he was no pushover. ‘Five grand.’

  Davie gave him a thin smile. ‘Fifteen.’

  Lassiter paused, a smile beginning to grow. ‘You’d do well in Hollywood. Ten it is.’

  Davie nodded, satisfied. ‘And four – you never come here.’

  ‘That’s the same as number one.’

  ‘I know, that’s how important it is. Deal?’

  Lassiter stared at him for a second, an amused look on his hand­­some features. Then he pulled his coat from the back of the armchair, found the inside pocket and produced a chequebook and pen.

  ‘Cash,’ said Davie.

  ‘I don’t carry that kind of cash around with me.’

  ‘It’s okay, I trust you.’

  Lassiter put the chequebook away then stood and held out his hand. Davie reached over the coffee table without standing and shook it. The actor’s grip was strong and dry, but he held it for a moment longer than Glasgow propriety demanded. ‘I want you to know,’ he said, ‘I would’ve paid you double.’

  Davie laughed and wondered if he should say that he would’ve done it for free just to get the guy off his back.

  TUESDAY

  First thing in the morning, Davie went to The Black Bird to tell Rab of the previous night’s events. Such matters were never discussed on the phone. Rab was on a war footing already and had arranged for one of the other boys to drive him to work. He didn’t want the two of them to be in the same vehicle from now on. Davie spotted the guards in the street easily, which was fine, because they were supposed to be visible. There were more inside, all drinking coffee and tea because Rab had decreed there was to be no booze. Fat Boy McGuire and Choccie Barr sat in the corner, and Stringer, of course, off on his own, reading a Robert Ludlum novel. Kid Snot wasn’t there, though. Davie was disappointed. He wanted a word with him about Lassiter.

  There were no customers, not that day. Anyone who fancied a drink was told to try elsewhere. The Black Bird was closed for the time being. No explanation was given, it was all very polite. Unless someone turned stroppy, then politeness went the way of the dodo.

  Rab was in his office. He listened quietly as Davie told him what happened, including Lassiter’s involvement. The big man’s face grew darker while Davie talked, then he launched himself from his chair and paced around the small office, a stream of invective flowing from his lips. Davie waited until the first gush of anger dried. Rab fell silent and sat back in his chair again.

  ‘Come stay with us, Davie,’ Rab offered, ‘till it all blows over. You know you’re welcome. Place is like a fuckin fortress, so it is. And Bernadette will be glad to see you. The kids, too.’

  Davie knew he would be safer in Rab’s Bothwell home. He knew it would be guarded round the clock and the layout of the cul-de-sac in which the expansive detached house sat made it hard for strangers to get by unnoticed. But he couldn’t be that close to Bernadette, even though he’d turned a corner. He shook his head. ‘I’m fine, Rab, thanks.’

  There was a pause and Davie knew Rab was building up to something. He stooped to stroke the dog’s head, then he looked around the room as if there was someone else to overhear and said quietly. ‘I heard about Vari. You okay?’ Rab was never good with personal matters. It took a lot for him to ask and, despite the growing distance between them, it showed they were still mates.

  Something tightened in Davie’s chest. He didn’t know whether it was the mention of Vari or Rab’s obvious concern. ‘Aye. Happier on my own, you know that.’

  ‘Okay.’ Davie smiled at the relief in Rab’s voice. ‘This thing last night. You know this means you’re in it, right?’

  ‘I know.’

  Rab nodded, satisfied. ‘Okay. Good. C’mon, let’s rally the troops.’

  Davie grabbed the dog’s lead and followed Rab into the bar. ‘Right, lads, the Jarvis clan made a bid on Davie last night. That’s two of their boys won’t be coming out to play for a wee while.’

  A chuckle rippled round the room. Everyone except Stringer, who kept reading.

  ‘So,’ Rab went on, ‘we know they’re coming after us. We all need to be on our guard, right? We…’ He stopped as he scanned the room. A face was missing. ‘Where the fuck’s the Kid?’

  ‘Said he had to see a guy,’ said Fat Boy.

  Rab frowned. ‘He’s no on his own, is he?’

  ‘Well,’ Fat Boy said, his bulk shifting in his chair, ‘I don’t think the guy’s a guy, know what I’m sayin, Rab?’

  ‘What the fuck did I tell you lot?’ Rab’s voice exploded round the bar. He was a big man and he had a voice to match. Even Stringer looked up. ‘We don’t go anywhere on our tod. We go somewhere, we take a coupla lads with us. Fuck’s sake – everyone in this room is a target. Where is this guy who’s no a guy?’

  Fat Boy looked ashamed. He glanced at Choccie for help but he looked away, telling him he was on his own. ‘Dunno, Rab…’

  ‘So you’re telling me the Kid’s out there, on his own, God knows where?’

  Fat Boy defended himself. ‘It’s no my fault, Rab. I’m no his faither.’

  Rab opened his mouth and closed it again. Fat Boy was right, the Kid was a big boy and he should’ve known better.

  Davie said, ‘He’s been seeing someone in Cumbernauld – the wife of Jojo Donnelly.’

  Rab nodded. ‘Stringer, find him, get him back here. And don’t none of you move from this bar unless I say so.’

  Rae Donnelly was in her thirties and lived in a split-level terraced house in Ravenswood, one of the older areas of what used to be the new town of Cumbernauld. She had a head of thick, black hair that the Kid longed to run his hands through. A raven-haired beauty, his dad would call her, which fitted with her neighbourhood. If she was a redhead, she’d be a flame-haired beauty to his old dad. Blondes were golden-haired beauties. Even if none of them were that beautiful. But she was raven-haired and it was luxurious, long and lovely.

  The Kid had said he’d get over to see her that day. He didn’t think it would do any harm, he’d only be gone for an hour or so. He’d been working on her for weeks. Her man was doing five for punting weed and wasn’t due out for another year. The Kid had been doing her wee favours – taking her shopping, picking her boy up from school, doing odd jobs around the house – all designed to ingratiate himself. He even managed to control his sniff reflex when he was around her. That morning, she’d complained she hadn’t seen him for a few days, so he took that as a good sign. He said he’d get over that day. He was as good as his word.

  It looked promising when she met him at the door wearing her dressing gown. It was half eleven in the morning and she was still in her nightie under it. At least that’s what he assumed. Then he thought, what if she’s no wearing nothing under it? Hey, what if this is it, finally? The Kid had to admit he felt a slight frisson at the thought, even though he hadn’t the first clue what the fuck a frisson was. He’d seen the word in a book and he assumed it meant the electric tingle that spread from his groin. Maybe pretty soon they’d be frissoning like rabbits.

  She made him a cup of tea, asked him if he wanted a slice of toast. He declined, thinking what I want is a slice of morning glory, darling. They sat in the living room downstairs, sipping the tea, an electric fire burning between them doing its best to heat the room. Her boiler had packed up, she said, as usual on the coldest night of the year so far. Not that the year was all that old, right enough. They talked about the snow and how she had got her so
n to clear the pathway outside the front door. He was only fourteen, she said, be a man before she knew it.

  The Kid soon realised, with great disappointment, that she had no carnal motive. Sometimes a dressing gown is just a dressing gown. Rae was no skank, she was just lonely. She missed her man. Her son was growing up before her very eyes. She was getting older. She enjoyed the attentions of a younger man, but she had no intention of doing anything about it. The Kid realised all this while he sat and politely nodded as she talked about her son, the snow, the dodgy gas boiler and, for all he knew, the price of fish, because he stopped listening halfway through.

  The doorbell rang and she looked flustered. ‘That’ll be the gas man about the boiler. Do me a favour, let him in. I can’t open the door to someone like this.’ When he nodded she added, ‘Let me nip upstairs and get dressed, will you?’

  He let her slide past him in the hallway, enjoying the fleeting sensation of her body brushing his, then she darted up the stairs to the mid-level where the front door stood and on up the second flight of stairs to the bedrooms on the top level. The Kid followed her, his disappointment weighing him down. He really thought this was the day. Maybe it was time he gave this up as a lost cause.

  He could see the smudged outline of a man through the frosted glass and the lacy curtain. He heard Rae’s bedroom door close and then he turned the lock, sniffing as he did so.

  The first thing he saw was the over-and-under barrels of the shotgun staring right at him. Then he was aware of the bloke behind it, his face obscured by a balaclava.

  ‘How you doin, Kid?’ said a voice muffled by the thick fabric of the balaclava. The blast blew holes in the Kid’s chest in an eruption of blood and cloth and bits of bone and threw him back onto the stairs. The Kid didn’t see Jerry Jarvis look around him to ensure no-one saw before sprinting back along the pathway alongside the row of terraced house. The Kid was unaware of Rae rushing down the stairs. The Kid didn’t get to enjoy the sight of her dressing gown flapping open to reveal a thin nightgown. The Kid would’ve liked that, if he could’ve seen it. But the Kid couldn’t see it. He couldn’t hear her scream. He couldn’t feel her raven hair gently brushing his face as she leaned over him. He wouldn’t see or hear anything ever again.