Pure Angst

by Stephen Scarcliffe

  Davy released his grip, leaving Sean standing there staring him down, fists clenched. The blood was roaring in his ears, his heart was pounding even harder, every fibre in his body was standing on end ready to strangle the life out of his dad – or anyone else in his path.

  “Ye wantae hit me? Hit me.” Davy slapped himself hard across the jaw. “Anythin tae get the fire rumblin in that fuckin belly ay yours. We do that cunt tonight. Show Dougie we’re tired of his dictatorship. Maybe then he’ll see sense an we can sit down an sort this oot good an proper. If not we go tae John an we strike a deal. Shift the balance of power an take back what’s ours.”

  42

  That night, Sean looked down at the pile of envelopes. He wasn’t sure why he had kept them all these years. He had sent his final letter around the age of eighteen, though the replies had continued for several years. Gradually over time they had slowed to the point where they only appeared on the odd birthday or Christmas, before eventually they dried up altogether.

  Perhaps he had locked away a piece of his heart with these very envelopes.

  He opened up the letter, the very last one he had received. He took a deep breath as he began to read.

  My darling Sean,

  No doubt you are a man now, and a handsome one at that. This will be my last letter. I’m going to respect your wishes and let you get on with your life since (as you said yourself three years ago) this has become too painful an exercise for me to continue. All this time I suppose I’ve been holding out hope that you would somehow change your mind, and find a way of joining me and your sisters over here in Canada. Come visit your aunties and uncles and perhaps even find a way to stay here with us. I can see now that Scotland is your home and your heart is in Edinburgh.

  As I write this to you I am looking out of the window at Abby. She’s so beautiful Sean; a young woman now, playing in the snow with your little cousin Max whom you’ve never met, with the Rocky Mountains in the background below a clear blue sky.

  The door will always be open for you here, Sean. I want you to know that. You will always have a place here with me and your sisters. I need you to know that I didn’t choose what happened, Sean. I tried my hardest to take you with us, but your father, well, you know what he’s like, he wasn’t having it, nor was Uncle Dougie. It isn’t fair to continue this game of tug of war which is why I’m ending it now. Just please, please, be careful Sean, in everything you do.

  Your loving Mother

  Cindy

  His eyes wandered to the bottom of the letter. An address in Calgary, Canada. He didn’t know if they still lived there or if they’d moved on. It had been so long. Ten years.

  43

  Dad, I can’t do this anymore...

  I’m going away for a while...

  It’s all getting too much. I need time to think...

  It didn’t matter what he said or how he said it, he was bracing himself for an onslaught. He was backing out and leaving his old man up shit-creek when he needed him the most.

  He felt the jitters bouncing around his ribcage as he pushed the rusty key into the slot, applying pressure, just to feel the lock jam as it always did. After a couple of minutes of frustration and forcing, it gave way. The stubborn green door creaked open, revealing the dark and cramped kitchen area, a dim flickering bulb above the sink providing the only light.

  As he stepped over two hefty boxes, out of the corner of his eye he thought he noticed a figure moving, forcing him to freeze. After peering about on the spot looking for signs of danger he shrugged it off as his mind playing tricks, and anxiously made his way toward the other side of the room, squeezing his way in between chip pans and tables as he went.

  As he reached for the door handle he heard what sounded like a shuffling of feet behind him. “Hello? Is anyone there?” He placed a sweating hand inside his backtail and nervously took hold of the Stanley, whilst reaching for the light switch with his other hand. Then everything went blank.

  The ceiling light was blinding, the back of his head was throbbing, he wasn't sure if he had slipped and fallen or what. Then as Simon Lockhart stepped over him with that sick grin, waving Sean’s Stanley about in mid-air, it all became frighteningly clear. “Awrite Sean! Comin tae join the card game? Yer auld man’s waitin oan ye.”

  As he felt himself getting dragged through the kitchen doorway and into the pub, he looked about for anything he could grab but it was useless. There were only tables and chairs and that was no good to him as he lay on his back getting dragged past fag ends and broken glass, the smell of stale bevy seeping up his nostrils. The haunting sound of his old man screaming in between heavy smacks was all he could hear as he closed his eyes and felt himself drift off again. In what seemed like a matter of seconds he was woken by a heavy slap, as he opened his eyes to an even more terrifying sight than before. Uncle Dougie crouched over him sleeves rolled up, hands covered in blood. “Ye with us Sean? Good. Sit him up. Ah want him tae have a ringside seat.”

  He felt himself hoisted up and then planted down on a chair, before looking to his right and seeing a stern faced Gordon Trevor standing by his side clenching his fists. In front of him his battered dad was slouched over a table, eyes swollen shut with blood and drool seeping out the side of his mouth as both Dougie and George stood over him puffing and panting.

  He felt the urge to scream for help but he knew it wouldn’t come. What he needed to be thinking about was damage limitation. He noticed Simon glaring at him with the Stanley in hand, looking to Dougie for the go ahead, and realised that if he was to have any hope of getting out of this situation in one piece he needed to use the sharpest tool at his disposal.

  His mouth.

  “Talk to me, Uncle Dougie. What’s goin on here? Come on, talk tae me. We’re family, we can sort this out. Whatever it is, we can sort it out. It’s no too late.”

  Dougie smiled as he sat on the table in front of him and crossed his arms like he had appointed himself judge, jury and executioner. “Did you know? Did you know this was goin on? Were you part of it?”

  “It’s me, Uncle Dougie. It’s Sean. Ah’ve always had yer back no matter what! What’s goin on?”

  “Naw Sean. No this time. He’s gone too far. Stealin off his own, robbin me stinkin fer months! Ain’t that right David?”

  Davy lifted his battered head from the table and spat a mixture of blood and saliva. “Fuck you, Dougie.”

  Dougie stood up, causing Sean to flinch in his seat. He felt the sweat pouring down his neck as little black dots began to appear in front of his eyes.

  “We’ll get to your sins soon Sean, don’t you worry. No havin ye feelin left out.”

  Dougie nodded at Gordon who began cracking his big knuckles as he towered over the old man’s battered carcass.

  “What dae ye mean he’s been stealing from ye Uncle Dougie?” Sean offered faintly, feeling his powers of persuasion waning.

  “It’s awrite Sean!” yelled Davy as he lifted his horribly swollen face from the table. “Yer wastin yer breath son. Ah’ve been caught. Fuck him, he gave me no choice.”

  Dougie, sitting at the other side of the table from Davy, pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it with blood-stained hands that were shaking with rage.

  “Ah gave ye the pub. Ah let ye go about yer business uninterrupted. An what did ye dae? Ye shat all over me!”

  “You gave me SHITE YA BASTARD! Taxin me like a mug,” shouted Davy with spit flying from his mouth as he sat forward. “So what did Ah do? Ah TAXED YE BACK!” He burst into a bout of crazed laughter as Sean willed him to put a lid on it.

  “Aye well, Ah’ll teach you tae steal fae me ya bastard. Son?”

  Sean gripped hold of the bottom of the seat and froze with terror as George pulled a long hammer from behind his belt. He planted the old man’s hand down flat on the table whilst Gordon wrapped a big arm around his neck to restrain him. Sean felt the terror turn to fury as he stood up, just to feel the sharp Stanley slashing his forearm, forcing h
im to fall back into the chair like a scalded animal. He struggled to watch, holding his soaking arm as George lifted the hammer.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH.”

  The scream did nothing to drown out the sound of bones cracking underneath the weight of the hammer. Every thud and crack reverberated around Sean’s brain that was now buzzing, as he felt the piercing cries of his old man torturing him, laying witness to him whimpering like a little boy as George continued driving them in.

  “Fuckin STOP IT GEORGE! He’s had enough!”

  George stopped and pointed the hammer squarely at Sean. “You fuckin killed Willie so keep that hole in yer face SHUT!”

  As Sean tried to reply he caught a boot clean in the face from Lockhart that knocked him off his chair. He gnashed his teeth as he curled up into a ball on the floor and watched as Gordon took the right hand, the dealing hand, on the prompting of Dougie. Sean felt himself numbing inside as the screams, the thuds and the cracks increased in volume. After they were done with both hands, they hoisted the right leg up as he kicked and screamed in wild despair.

  Sean closed his eyes and clenched them tight, clamping his hands against his ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out.

  He tried his hardest but the faces of his mother and sisters were now gone, a distant fairytale fantasy ending that seemed utterly ludicrous and pathetic now. In its place was nothing but cold, hard vengeance.

  44

  “Mon Sean, up ye get.”

  He felt his whole body tremble at Dougie’s command.

  Now it was him looking back at his dad with pleading but he knew that he was in no position to save him. He sat up to the sight of that demon Simon Lockhart cooking up fluid in a spoon.

  “No. NOOOOOOO!!

  “It’s time fer you son. Tae take a dose of yer own medicine,” said Dougie as George grabbed hold of him by the back of his head, dragged him up to his feet and shoved him back onto the seat. He felt himself growing dizzy again, but he needed to stay alert. Needed to find a way out of this somehow.

  “Ye see Sean Ah knew. Too much of a coincidence. Then when George told me about yer mumblin’s the other night Ah started askin about at the prison. An then it was confirmed.” Dougie took a seat right in front of him, and eyeballed Sean with those searching eyes. “Ye should know by now, Sean. Nothin gets past me.”

  “He was gonnae grass us in Dougie! What would you have done! EH!? Ma best mate an he was gonnae serve me up on a fuckin platter! Ah had tae dae it, Ah had tae! Any cunt in here would’ve done the same! Ah learnt from the best didn’t Ah?”

  “Maybe so. But doesnae change the fact that ye let yerself get dragged doon wae him. An for all Ah know you were part of him robbing me aw this time.”

  “Was nothin tae do wae him Dougie. Leave um be,” strained Davy in between tortured whimpers as he rolled onto his back with great difficulty, unable to use his mangled hands.

  “No one’s listenin tae you! Keep it down or yer face’ll go on that table next. Simon! Do the honours, son.”

  “Time tae join the darts club Sean.”

  “NAAAAWWWW! Dougie! PLEASE!!”

  As George and Gordon held him down, Simon Lockhart crouched over him with the needle in hand. That evil yellow toothed grin would be the last thing he ever saw. As he looked up to the ceiling, struggling hard and feeling himself gasp for air, flashbacks of his dream passed through his mind. Staring up at the cold sky overhead as he felt himself getting dragged down deeper into the lake, a premonition perhaps? Soon he would be taking the plunge for real he thought to himself as he muttered a desperate prayer and closed his eyes.

  45

  Sean wasn’t sure how long he’d been out cold before waking up and spewing his load. Last thing he remembered was getting bundled into the back of the car half jaked, mind drifting, feeling like he was being driven to his imminent death. Felt like he could see the icy cold sky above him, just like in the dream. But as he wiped his mouth, clutching at his stinging forearm, caked in dry blood, and looked down at the bag of heroin on the glass table in front of him, it all became clear. Dougie wanted him down and out. Reduced to a junky, unable to function, right where he could keep his eye on him. If they had just killed the two of them and John found out, clearly he would be asking questions. If, however he was turning up in Glasgow to pick up gear on the regular, out his head on smack, something John didn’t like, he might be asking questions of another kind, forcing him to distance himself, seeing him as a liability, less likely to support him and Davy should they try to turn the tables.

  He shuddered as the sound of that hammer shattering the bones of his dad’s hands and knee reverberated through him, and then just as he tried to block it out, it sent the contents of his stomach rising up in a projectile all over the floor again.

  He wiped his mouth and took a deep breath before making for the kitchen. Once he had cleaned up the mess he had made, still feeling the wretched effects of the smack, he picked up the bag, took it through to the sink, opened it and poured the contents down the drain.

  I’m no fucking junky...

  There was only one thing left to do. Once he had grabbed the box from his room he emptied every letter, postcard, and envelope onto the fireplace.

  There would be no running now.

  46

  Billy stared out the rear view window at the Forth Road Bridge as it towered across the dark night sky with its purple hue, the glistening water beneath reflecting dozens of shimmering lights. Thieving was one thing, dealing drugs, handing out the odd doing, sure – but murder?

  All of a sudden he felt like an amateur, painfully out of his depth. Yet they had accepted half the cash up front, and anyway it wasn’t in him to back away from anything, shitting it or not, and the way Jimmy was gnawing his knuckles to the bone suggested Billy wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure.

  “You ready fer this, mate?” said Billy.

  “Aye. You?”

  “Fuck aye,” said Billy.

  His attention drifted out to the Forth Road Bridge again. Such a massive presence in the distance, looming as large as that contract in front of them. They had no plan, not really. All they knew was they didn’t want any witnesses, so the only real idea was to follow the fucker until they had him on his own and then give him it, hard and fast.

  Clark was true to his word. Goddard was so at ease in his little manor that he went about without any protection, meaning it would hopefully be a two-on-one situation. The car they were in was completely untraceable. The shotguns they had acquired also untraceable, or so he hoped.

  Billy looked at him standing behind the counter of his chip shop, grinning, completely oblivious, as some drunk stumbled in for a supper on his way home. He didn’t look much. Long black sideburns clung to his face like thick patches of carpet. He wore the appearance of someone who at one time was built like a brick-house, with a physique that had gradually shrunk into its frame over the years, leaving a sagging sack of shit in its place.

  Of course, the other possible motivation was that he was supposedly a beast. This was according to Clark himself, who probably had his own reasons for spinning that line.

  As the purple hue in the sky slowly faded to black, Billy felt that knot in his stomach tightening.

  Shitebag. Weak. No got it in ye. Call yersel a Wright?

  Billy shook his head to rid it of Jack’s negative taunts. He had abstained from the gear until now, figuring better to have a straight head on his shoulders to avoid doing anything too rash or making mistakes, but out of the corner of his eye he caught Jimmy gubbing more bass and he gave in. “Gies some ay that, mate.”

  “Looks like he’s oan the move eh,” said Jimmy as the lights were switched off one by one in the shop.

  Billy brushed away the residue from his fingers and pulled on his leather gloves as he felt his heart pounding like fuck.

  “Let’s just do um in front ay the shop,” said Jimmy. “Git it over an done wae.”

  “Jimmy,
there’s a polis station right roond the corner. Let’s follow um, see where he goes.”

  “We did that last night an got naewhere. We might no git a chance tae get um on his own. We’ve got the balaclavas there so nae cunt can ID us.”

  Now Billy felt backed into a corner by Jimmy’s burst of reckless courage. He didn’t want to look like the shitebag but at the same time he was determined to wait till the right moment, and as Goddard laughed and joked with a young lassie and a middle-aged woman right in front of chip shop, this clearly wasn’t it.

  Billy had to stick to his guns. Had to go with his instincts and keep from getting pulled in by Jimmy’s impulsiveness. If it went south and they wound up taking out one or worse both of the women out in the open, they’d be lucky to reach the A90. If they got Goddard on his own, hopefully it would be seen as what it was, a gangland hit.

  “We wait, mate. Trust me on this. Mental enough agreein tae this as it is, wantae dae it right. Got a fuckin baby oan the way mate, Ah’m no watchin um grow up fae behind bars.”

  Jimmy sighed, clearly growing restless. Billy could understand it to an extent as the longer they left it the more chance of hesitation and nerves creeping in. More chance they might choke when it came time.

  Goddard climbed into his car and started the engine as the two women disappeared down the street. As his car moved off, Billy slowly crept past the old church on his right, making sure there was enough distance between them.