“Ma lips are sealed son. And there will be no meddlin in Dougie’s affairs fae me. Ye’ve got ma word.”
23
Billy and George muscled in at the front of the queue for the Venue, as the powerful beats made the rain soaked ground beneath them shake. Billy had copped half before the car ride up and he could already feel the early signs rising in his stomach as the rest of the team barged their way into the queue behind them. Dollars were on the menu now, and as always Billy had been assured by Andy Riley that they were dynamite.
Riley had proven the ticket into all kinds of raves and parties in the weeks since the first batch had been purchased and they had taken full advantage of his network of E-heads. Now, however, ecstasy was pushing its way into the city’s nightclubs, with The Venue on Calton Road at the forefront of the scene. The place looked like a stony sweat-soaked hole, filled with dirty techno and probably at least a couple of hundred folk looking for sweeties. The only problem with that picture was that the word on the street was Dale Alscott had the place sewn up, using Hibs casuals to push his product.
A well known gangster around Edinburgh, and an all-round sadistic bastard, Alscott was also a trained Thai boxer with a reputation for using swords on his enemies.
With hundreds of eccies between them, Billy knew that he and George may well be leading their mob into a world of danger, but they had managed to punt so many in the first few weeks of custom that they were already onto their second thousand and looking for anywhere and everywhere that they could push them. The danger was part of the excitement. The raves were a cakewalk, far too wide open for anyone to fully control. It was a breeze. The Venue on the other hand presented a challenge, and that challenge was providing a buzz similar to the feeling he had felt inside when they took to the Astroturf at Pilton all those years ago to exact revenge upon the unfortunate Kevin MacDonald, who now lived with a daily reminder on his face as to why you shouldn't fuck with the Muirhousers.
The bouncers didn’t look familiar; that was a relief, at least. Chances were, they belonged to Dale Alscott. One of them who was grinning childishly wore an Ellesse tracksuit, a hefty beer belly and a nasty tan down his cheek. The other smaller built one was a little smarter looking with a white suit and tie and pinstripe trousers. He was stone faced, well chiselled. Looked like one of those wee cunts that could fight like fuck with folk far bigger.
“Ye sorted, boyos?” said the tracksuit wearing bouncer as Billy and George arrived at the door. This was a new breed of bouncer altogether, that was for sure. Billy and George looked at one another and back at the wired wideboy.
“What a shitehole, man,” declared George as they made their way up the slippery stone staircase. Billy had brand new Nike Air Huaraches that would surely be mocket by the time they left. Still, he couldn’t stop his body jerking to the beat as they made their way to the bar. The hard, menacing techno was deafening. The place was full of smoke, billowing from machines at the side of the dance floor. There were three guys on the dance floor, complete stormers, all with their tops off, waving glow sticks about, eyes popping out of their heads. Another boy was bouncing up and down close to them with a boiler suit and goggles on, thrusting his hands in the air like he was able to touch the moon, whilst a girl in a tie-dye dress danced lazily behind. It was basically an indoor rave and Billy liked it. Felt like a dark, dingy box, full of menace and euphoria in equal measures. As he turned and accepted a bottle of water from Joe he felt that grin stretching across his face again.
“You’re melted ya cunt,” said Joe.
“Who me? No quite yet.” Billy waded through the team and found George at the bar, bobbing his head, arms crossed. If there was one thing about the big man, he very rarely let rip on the dance floor, no matter how fucked he got. He would just stand there, sweating like a rapist in his big bomber jacket, arms crossed, bobbing his head whilst looking about for custom to direct the young team toward. By the end of the night he might have progressed to lifting those big hulking arms in the air, able to relax, as most of the business had been done.
“Might be a shitehole Georgie Boy, but just wait till that half hits ye an it’ll take on a whole new fuckin look.”
George smiled as Billy slapped him on the back before taking his place at the bar next to him. “Ah was thinkin,” said George. “Should wait till it’s filled up before we start askin aboot. Dinnae wantae blow our cover too early.”
“Bang on.” Billy turned to George, unable to control the grin that had taken over his face. “Let’s hope we get tae cut loose an enjoy oursels a bit before we go tae town in here, eh?”
Some time later, Billy pulled himself away from the dance floor to check how many eccies had been punted. It was clear that most folk had already purchased their goods from one of the head-cases doing the rounds, decked out in attire that screamed football casual.
It was becoming pretty obvious that they had their work cut out for them in this establishment. Billy caught sight of the doorman in the Ellesse tracksuit making for the toilets, closely followed by an associate who had on a cream Ted Baker polo top. He turned and nodded at George, who nodded back. It was time to introduce themselves, so they pushed their way through the clouds of smoke and wasted strangers bouncing to the beat, and made their way to the WC.
George started splashing water on his hands as Billy checked himself out in the mirror whilst sizing up the competition. The bouncer pulled a wad of notes from his tracksuit bottoms and began openly counting the night’s takings as they shared a joke. These cunts were blatant. Clearly Dale Alscott had the owner in his pocket.
“Fuckin murder fer business the night George eh? Cannae sell shit in here man.”
The two casuals began eyeballing Billy in the mirror as he turned to George with a smirk on his face. Within seconds he could feel the breath of the bouncer against the back of his neck. He looked up to see he now had his fists clenched, staring through the back of Billy’s head, as George turned to face the other one.
“You tryin tae sell gear on our patch ya cunt?” The boy took a step closer as Billy continued checking himself out, whistling a catchy tune he had heard the DJ rocking moments earlier. He was so close now that if he’d had a hard-on, Billy would be able to feel it.
The bouncer turned to his friend. “These wee cunts obviously don’t know who they’re fuckin wae, eh Simon?”
“Naw. CCS, Capital City Service. We run this club. We run this fuckin town!” As Billy wiped his hands on his jeans, he clocked the boy pulling something from his backtail but barely had the chance to act before George wiped him out with one punch. As he lay there trailing out of a cubicle, knocked spark out, workie’s arse spilling out the back of his trackie bottoms, Billy noticed the Stanley scuttle along the toilet floor. He picked it up and extended the blade, still whistling away at that catchy little tune as George flung the other casual up against the toilet wall like a rag doll. Billy wandered up to him and pressed the Stanley against his cheek as he felt the fear ringing out of his watering eyes.
“Tell yer boss we’re taking over this fucking club, an won’t stop until every fucking E that’s popped in here comes directly fae us. And just so ye know we’re serious...” Billy calmly ripped a line down his face, and watched as the blood gushed onto the cream Teddy Baker top.
The message had been delivered. Shame, as the music was getting good and Billy was starting to feel the full effect of that half E, but for now it was time to get out of dodge before the cavalry arrived.
24
“Eat this ya cunts!” was the cry from an eager youngster as he hurled a brick at the Venue doorway, sending an enraged Dale Alscott and his entourage diving inside for cover.
Billy ground his teeth as he stepped out of the motor, took a couple of steps run up and lobbed a large boulder of his own, which clattered against the white sign above the doorway. Within seconds there were boulders, bottles and bricks flying at the doorway as everyone poured out of the three cars and joined in the barr
age. Billy stuck two fingers in either side of his mouth the second the onslaught came to an end and whistled at young Ricky Bowden, who ran up to the door and yelled “MON THEN!” as loud as they could.
Within seconds a wild-eyed Dale Alscott was out in the street waving a samurai above his head. As the two young laddies hightailed it up the street closely pursued by six Hibs boys, Billy made a rapid retreat to Jimmy’s motor. As Billy went to yank the door open he noticed the trench coat clad, sword wielding psycho coming up from the rear, forcing him to turn and face. Alscott took a wild lunge, forcing Billy to arch himself backwards, the blade whistling dangerously past his Adam’s apple. George emerged from the rear, tackling him to the floor.
Billy collected himself in a frenzy and jumped as high as he could, coming down two footed on Dale Alscott who managed to cover his face just in time to let his arms take the weight of the blow.
“Mon Billy, let’s fuckin go!” screamed Joe from behind them, hanging halfway out of his car.
“Dale, there’s two ay thum ran up the street. Let’s fucking do thum!” yelled a burly Hibs boy, as Billy flung himself in the passenger side and pulled the door shut.
“You’ll see me again! I’ll fuckin remember your face ya little CUNT!” screamed Alscott, pointing his finger squarely at Billy from outside the car as he gripped onto his sword, his piercing eyes bulging out of their sockets.
Billy pushed his lips against the glass and blew him a kiss as the Volvo kicked into gear.
As they pulled away from the stone wall that divided Waverley Station from Calton Road, the sirens began ringing out loud and clear. Billy felt his heart hammering against the walls of his chest at a frightening pace as they drove past three meat wagons that were coming the other way. The plan had worked a treat. An anonymous phone call about serious trouble at the club had ensured the polis were there in a heartbeat, and the only thing they would find now was a tooled up madman and his CCS entourage chasing two young laddies down the street.
The other anonymous call had circled Dale Alscott’s name as the number one ecstasy distributor inside the Venue.
25
Sean and Willie had barely exchanged more than pleasantries since their spat outside Willie’s flat. And now he was walking down there with a request that wasn’t likely to improve things between them, but nonetheless Sean was willing to use the opportunity to at least try. The shit was getting tiresome. The one word answers. The frosty welcomes. The sly looks. Their friendship had been through a lot since high school. The birds, the drugs, the crimes had all taken their toll from time to time, but since Willie had introduced himself to his own product in such a big way, they had become two very different people.
Sean now embodied everything that Willie had once loved. Willie’s once rampant libido was disintegrating underneath the weight of the smack and Sean could see and feel the envy staring back at him every time he looked into his friend’s eyes. Problem was, he now seemed beyond help. Willie had ounces of smack around him all the time and with the likes of Simon Lockhart and all the other junky hangers on that he mixed with these days, Sean felt like he was wasting his time despite his best efforts.
The dark bags were hanging twice as low beneath those disdainful eyes and his ribs were even more prominent than the last time Sean had seen him as he stood at the doorway, bare-chested with chains dripping from his neck. Sean entered the living room behind his pal, stepping over charred pieces of foil and fag stubs. A neglected Nintendo console lay on the floor in front of a television set stuck on an episode of Eastenders. A dim table lamp was barely lighting up a room that was shielded from the outside world by thick dark curtains.
The Clash poster was still there though, a symbol of Willie’s glory days – the young nutter that passed the birds back and forth like a rolled-up note, that angry, witty maniac, that walking hard-on, brash as fuck. There it was, peeling at the corners, tattered and worn, but still clinging to that otherwise bare wall, stuck there like a constant reminder of the real Willie, not the crumbling junky he had become.
One thing that hadn’t crumbled though was Willie’s capacity for violence. He was still an asset in that regard. That was why when Davy needed a debt collected but was too proud to ask Dougie to handle it, they had agreed on Willie.
“Fuck sake Willie. Look at the state of this place. If the polis bust doon that door. Ye ken how dodgy it is sittin aboot here out yer faces, could be watchin this place as it is.”
“Aye well, Ah’m the cunt that takes the rap eh. Stuff'’s always gone within days anyway, jist personal here eh.”
“Aye still man, think about it eh?”
Sean shrugged his shoulders knowing he was wasting his time. He twisted up a one skinner with tobacco and coke in rapid fashion, lit it, and released a puff of sickly sweet fumes into the air, feeling his head steadily lighten. He turned and edged the curtain open, exposing a beam of light that forced Willie to coil into his couch like a scalded vampire.
“You need tae get out mair, Willie. It’s nae good fer ye sittin in here aw the time. Ye dae yer business then ye retreat tae yer hole tae pump aw yer profit intae they veins. It’s nae way tae live man. You’re probably daein twice as much of that shite as half the cunts on the streets man. You’ve got money, unlike any of them. Problem is all yer profit just goes straight back intae yer arms.”
“Aw dinnae start eh. Standin there smokin coke.”
“Aye yer right. Ah’m only wastin ma time after aw. There’s somethin else Ah need tae talk tae ye aboot anyway. Asian boy fae Telford. Name’s Rasheed. Took a loan off ma old boy a few weeks back and he’s yet tae make any payments. It’s three grand an ma dad’s getting antsy tae say the least.”
“An what’s that got tae dae wae me like?”
“He wants you tae go through the cunt’s door an make um pay up. If he’s no got it, give um a doing, tell him he’s got another week or him and his family are in danger.”
“Yer kiddin aren’t ye? Ah’m spent the now, no fuckin way. Tell um tae dae it umsel.”
“Dae you wantae go an tell um like?”
Willie looked at Sean for a second with strained eyes before looking away.
“Thought so. It’s too dodgy for him anyway, just out the jail.”
“What, an it’s no too dodgy fer me? One false move an Ah’m stuck away fer years. Cunts are after me twenty-four seven, chokin tae bust me so they are.”
“Look, he’s asked specifically fer you, ye know how proud he is. Doesnae want tae go askin Dougie’s muscle, so he asked me tae come tae you.”
“An what's in it fer me like?”
“Look, it’s no me givin the order awright? If you wantae head up tae The Gunner an bargain wae ma auld boy then on ye go, but all Ah can say is good luck.”
Willie knelt forward as he peered up at Sean with searching eyes. “Does Dougie ken yer auld man’s dishin oot orders tae cunts on his payroll?”
“Naw, an he’s no gonnae. No his business is it?”
“Aye Ah’m sure he’d see it that way right enough. If Ah didn’t know any better I’d think he was lookin tae make a play against Dougie, wae you tae back um up, gatherin the troops, rock the boat an that.”
Sean pondered Willie’s words as he held in the hit from the joint, feeling his head grow light as he let the smoke drift from his mouth up his nostrils. Was that his dad’s plan? Use Sean to get Willie on side, gradually growing their own firm underneath Dougie’s nose? “Dinnae talk stupid. Dougie knows he’s loan sharkin anyway.”
“When’s he want it done?”
“Might as well get yerself up there the night. He runs a corner shop. Wee hole next tae the flats. That’s where ye’ll find um.”
“A fuckin shop! Ye havin a laugh? Plenty opportunity fer witnesses.”
“It’s a shed mate, nae cameras or that.”
“Here, gies a blow ay that.”
Sean flung him the last of the coke joint. “Mair where that came fae here.” He pulled a wrap out of hi
s back pocket and dropped it on the table. “There’s over a gram in there. It’s the good shit an aw, completely unjumped on. Git that up yer snout before ye head up there, ma treat. That’ll give ye all the energy ye need, fuckin marching powder. In fact bosh that out now an do us a couple of big ones before I shoot off.”
Willie shrank back into the couch, zoned out, clearly struggling to move a muscle.
“Looks like I'll have tae do it then, eh?” Sean emptied the wrap out onto the table and chopped out two thick lines. “Willie mate, this thing with the smack is getting old. Dae ye wantae end up like Ryan Lockhart, or Derek Rennie? In yer forties, nae bird, skagged oot yer brain twenty-four-seven? Use this shit tae get ye back on yer game man. Used tae be a fuckin ladykiller, man. Ye can be again.”
Sean’s false hopes felt even more genuine after he emptied the line up his nostril and stood up straight, brain focused. He thrust his hands downwards at the used needles on the floor. “This shit’s killin ye man. The coke’s all ye need tae keep ye on point. Let all the other mugs shoot up.” He looked down and watched his friend follow suit, before watching as it breathed life back into that frail body. Willie wiped vigorously at his nose before sitting up straight.
“When’s he wantin it done then? The night?”
There it was, that violent urge raging out of him, an urge that no manner of smack could drain. Sean reckoned it was the only other hit that Willie lived for now. What was even more dangerous was that urge had now been fuelled by preemo cocaine.
Willie powered his way along the railway toward Telford later that night as the Happy Mondays blared into his ear drums. Sean was right, in his own superior and sanctimonious way. Willie needed to kick the smack. Hadn’t had a ride that he hadn’t paid for in close to two years. His flat was a doss house occupied by cunts. Cunts the lot of them, all hangers on, looking for a spare bit of gear like fucking vultures. Get in line and pay like the rest of the sorry cunts in the scheme.
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