by Ed James
‘No, Jack. We’re here with an offer for you.’
That seemed to puzzle him. He gave each of his wives a look, then settled his gaze back on Cullen. ‘Go on?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard how—’
‘That virus is a hoax, and we’re having nothing to do with it.’
Cullen widened his smile. Exactly how he’d expected this to go. ‘Jack, the virus might have everything to do with you.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It’s true.’ Angela made her way around the side to stand next to Cullen, but she was looking at the wives and not Jack. ‘We’re here to help you. There’s a government initiative in place to home people in your situation in a hostel.’
‘It’s not a situation, lassie. This is our life.’
‘And it could be your death.’ Angela let the words settle. ‘We need to make sure that all persons of no fixed abode are securely rehomed until this is over.’
‘Until what’s over? This coronavirus is a myth!’
‘No, it’s not. It’s killing people. Forty-eight people in the UK yesterday. Eight hundred in Italy. Three prison inmates died this week because of it. There’s a special ward in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to cover it. They’re opening hospitals in London and Birmingham.’ She paused again. ‘Now, I know you guys love your freedom, but you’re most at risk here. We need to get you off the street, otherwise it’s very possible you will die.’
Jack shook his head, just like Cullen had seen a few times in the past.
But it seemed to be getting through to the younger two wives, sharing a worried look. Frowning, twitching eyebrows. Despite their advanced stage of inebriation, they were clearly still capable of processing the information. But they didn’t seem brave enough to say anything.
‘I know you’ve not had the best of times, but this is a chance to rebuild your lives. There are courses on offer to help retrain you. And counselling.’
Jack waved a hand at his wives, trying to force them to ignore Angela, then he stared hard at her. ‘What do you know about what we’ve been through?’
Angela looked at the middle of the three wives. ‘I know quite a bit about you, Mary.’
Mary’s eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘Mary Armstrong. Abused by your uncle, physically and sexually. One day, he hospitalised you, but still nobody believed you. And then you couldn’t face your family, so you took to the streets.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I spoke to your old social worker, Ben. He says hi.’
Mary shook her head.
‘And Alison McGuire?’
The youngest hung her head low.
‘An abusive relationship with a pimp from the age of fourteen. He kept knocking you up and beating you up until you miscarried. So you ran away from Newcastle to Edinburgh.’
The oldest one didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want her own demons aired. ‘I’ll take a room.’
Cullen smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Elaine. I think you’ll enjoy it there.’ He looked at the other two. ‘What about you?’
He got a nod from them both.
Jack sighed. ‘You’re not taking no for an answer, are you?’
‘Correct.’
A meat wagon trundled along the back road towards them, pulling up just behind Cullen.
‘So, what’s it to be, Jack?’
‘Fine. But I want your word that we can get back to our lives once this is all over.’
‘It’s what everyone wants, Jack. Just take care of yourself in there, okay?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Craig, Lauren, can you escort them?’
And they did, smiling through the downpour as they led them up to the waiting meat wagon.
Angela walked over to Cullen. ‘At least they don’t have much stuff to gather up. My fingers are still sticky from Loose Morag’s shopping trolley.’
‘Good work there.’ Cullen grinned at her. ‘Persuading them to come in like that. If that’d just been me and Craig, they’d have run and we’d be hunting them until dusk.’
She shrugged it off. ‘Just doing my job.’
‘No, you’re not just doing anything. You’re doing a sergeant’s job, and doing it really well. Going above and beyond. Don’t see Craig or Elvis calling up social workers to discuss age-old cases.’
She might’ve been blushing slightly. ‘Thanks, Scott.’
Cullen’s phone rang. He checked the display. Yvonne Flockhart. Still her Sunday name, not his favourite short form. ‘Better take this.’
Angela nodded at him, but didn’t look in his direction. ‘Cheers.’ She followed Hunter and Lauren over to the van.
‘Evie…’
‘Hey, Scott.’ She gave one of those deep yawns that didn’t seem to want to let go of its host. ‘Sorry.’
‘You sound knackered.’
‘Yup. Just calling to say we’ve caught a bad one. Probably won’t be home until later, so I won’t be able to meet up tonight.’
‘Right.’ And it hit Cullen hard. An hour left on his shift, spent dealing with all sorts of malarkey, and the thing he’d been clinging to was seeing Evie later.
Shit, their relationship was serious.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve heard they’re talking of extending the restrictions to a full lockdown.’
‘Really?’
‘Just what I heard.’ It sounded brittle even to him. ‘Means we won’t be able to see each other.’ He left a pause. ‘I’ll miss you.’
Sounded like she smiled. ‘I know. I’ll miss you too.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you down to Leith whenever you finish tonight?’
‘It’s a loooong drive from Livvy, Scott, and you know it.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while. Got an organic chicken in the fridge and—’
‘You had me at “make it worth your while”, but if you make some of that chilli gravy?’
‘See what I can do.’
And his police radio chose right then to crackle into life. ‘Control to DI Cullen.’
He sighed. ‘Better take this. Let me know what’s happening, Evie.’
‘Will do.’ She paused. ‘I like you, Scott.’
‘Like you too.’ He hung up, but he knew that stupid joke would hurt one or both of them. Unless it progressed from like to love.
He put the radio to his ear. ‘Receiving, over.’
‘Got a call in, Scott. Someone’s burning a 5G mast in Piershill.’
Cullen pushed his foot to the floor and weaved the pool car around a long queue of traffic. Felt like the last days of Christmas shopping here. Weren’t people supposed to be staying at home? He pulled back in and hit a wall of black smoke pouring across the road. No idea where it was coming from.
Up ahead, Hunter’s squad car cut across traffic into the Ashworth’s car park.
Cullen followed him in. The supermarket car park was rammed full. He had to slam the brakes to stop him from hitting a man pushing a trolley full of packed meat. He had half a mind to have a word with the guy and check that it was all for him. Knowing his luck, it’d be for a homeless shelter.
Cullen pulled up at the edge next to Hunter’s car and got out. He immediately caught sight of the reason for their call out.
Next door to the supermarket was a row of shops, the kind you’d see in any Scottish suburb. A squat post-war building housing a bookies, a pub and a fast-food takeaway, with pizza and kebabs by the look of it. Most locals would hit them in that order too.
On top was a shiny new phone mast, looking barely days old, but smouldering with the black smoke of a petrol fire. A pair of masked men were up there, holding out a bed sheet that read “5G = DEATH”.
‘They’re not all locked up, are they?’ Hunter joined Cullen by his car. ‘This not part of that 5G squad’s remit?’
‘Yup.’ Cullen unfastened his baton and set off towards the pub’s back door. ‘On their way over from Torphichen Street.’ He knocked on the door and wai
ted. ‘Methven put his hand up and offered our help.’
‘There’s nothing he won’t do to get us work, is there?’
‘That’s the problem with only being Acting, Craig.’
‘Right.’ Hunter tried the door and it opened. ‘Sod this.’ He stepped inside.
No signs of life in there. No music, no horse racing on the TV, no drinkers starting a half-three singalong. But, behind a door, there was a set of steps up to the roof.
‘Must be how those dafties got up there.’ Hunter led on up, taking it slowly, his own baton extended.
Cullen followed him out into the howling rain. Only a floor up, but it felt like they were on an oil platform. And it stank of smoke. Dank, rancid smoke. He put his finger to his lips and, baton raised, approached the masked idiots. ‘Police!’
They dropped their bed sheet and turned round. Both big guys, but fat and hopefully not a match for Cullen and Hunter. Then again, Cullen had seen the counter-proof to the saying: the bigger they were, the harder they’d crush the air out of your lungs when they landed on you.
The nearest one produced a knife, glinting in the soft daylight.
‘Here we go again…’ Cullen stepped closer and raised his baton even higher. ‘Sir, I need you to come with us.’
‘Fuck you, pig!’
The faintest wail of a siren. Fire brigade. Perfect. Bunch of wankers would keep winding Cullen and Hunter up for years if they didn’t take these plonkers down and soon.
So Cullen lashed out and cracked his baton off the knife-wielder’s forearm. The knife tinkled to the ground and Cullen raced forward, kicking it clean away towards the stairs. He grabbed the guy’s arm and bent it behind his back, then pushed him face down onto the bitumen. He was struggling to breathe from all the smoke. ‘Name and address.’
‘Fuck you, pig!’
Someone screamed.
Cullen looked over.
Hunter was wrestling the other guy to the ground. He had a PPE mask on, but it slipped up.
And shite, Cullen recognised him. Keith Ross. Worked in the Ashworth’s between Gilmerton and Liberton. A cleaner, if he remembered right. ‘Get off me!’
‘Go on, Craig, let him up. Then arrest him.’
So Hunter did, slackening his grip on his arms and letting the big guy up. ‘Keith Ross, I’m arresting you for the—’
Keith spat, a lumpy volley of gob flying through the air and landing in Hunter’s mouth just before he could shut it. ‘COVID!’
4
Bain
For fuck’s sake.
I can’t take my eyes off the telly. It’s switched to some boys back in the studio, all talking shite, but I can’t hear what they’re saying from all the noise in my head.
That governor boy is keeping us here, isn’t he? We’re trapped in this fuckin’ city.
Feels like a bit of an overreaction to say the least. A few people getting a cough and they shut the whole world down? Try doing that in Glasgow. They’ll be on the fuckin’ streets. Have to bring in the army!
Art gets up and slopes off to the bog, coughing into his fist.
‘Okay, Dani. I’ll let you know.’ Elvis sits on the edge of the bed, fizzing.
He stares right at us, shaking his head. ‘She’s not happy.’
‘Don’t doubt it.’ I can barely bring myself to look at him, though. He’s blaming me, isn’t he? And he’s right to.
‘Paul, I’m sorry. This is my fault.’
‘Damn right it’s your fault. We should’ve gone home from Orlando, or even back in Austin. “Connecting flights, though, Elvis, they’ll be a nightmare at Heathrow, eh?” So you argued and you won. And we’re stuck in New York. This is a complete disaster.’
‘Okay, you can kick my balls when we’re out of this. Right now, I suggest we think about what we’re going to do about it.’
‘What we’re going to do? This is on you, Brian.’ Never seen Elvis like this. He’s fuckin’ seething. ‘You told me this would be fine. What’s the worst that could happen, eh? Well, being stuck in New York while your pregnant wife is helpless at home is pretty much the definition.’
‘I’ll call the airline, see about getting us on the next plane.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘Then we’ve still got our flights tomorrow.’
‘You honestly think they won’t be grounded?’
He’s got us there. I’ve no idea, either way. I mean, if you have a sniff, then nae danger you’re getting on a flight. ‘The Home Office will sort us out.’
‘Aye, but when? Dani’s in her eighth month, Brian. Push is coming to shove.’ He winces. ‘Pardon the pun.’
‘Look, if it all goes to shite, it’ll only be for a few days. We can get pissed and see it out here in NYC. Chance to see the city.’
‘I’m not staying here!’
This is all my fault. Getting carried away with Jings Over America. Ignoring everything. ‘I’m really sorry, Paul.’
‘I know what this is all about. I shouldn’t have told you that you’re going to get screwed by Cullen and Methven back in Edinburgh. Shouldn’t have listened to you that this will be our big break.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You keep saying that, but I wish you’d actually mean it. Just once.’
I get out my mobile. ‘Right, I’m calling the airline, okay?’
I open the room door and it’s stinking of farts in there. Holding a tray of the last three coffees in New York and a box of shite doughnuts. Fuck sake.
Elvis and Art are sitting at the table. Not even drinking. Elvis looks over at me. ‘Well?’
‘Got some coffees in while I was on hold.’
‘I meant, did you get through to them?’
How do I break this to him? With a joke? ‘Bastards aren’t flying without a negative test.’
‘Seriously?’
‘No, I’m winding you up.’ I plonk the coffees on the table. ‘Here. Couldn’t get on any today without going via fuckin’ Australia, but our flight’s still scheduled for tomorrow.’
Art opens the lid on his and frowns, then his face lights up like a wee laddie. ‘What time you guys flying?’
‘Eight a.m. flight to Heathrow, then six hours waiting there, then a flight to Edinburgh.’
‘They don’t fly direct?’
Yet another bone of contention.
Elvis takes a sip of coffee. ‘That’s damn fine coffee.’ He puts the lid back on. ‘They do fly direct, but someone doesn’t like the airline, do they?’
Pricks are both looking at me. ‘I’ve got a shit ton of points with—’
‘Guys, how about you get loaded with me tonight.’ Art finishes his coffee and crumples up the carton. ‘I could get a buddy over with a buttload of beer in ten minutes. Like Phil Collins sang, just say the word.’
I stare at him like this is a laughing matter. ‘Phil fuckin’ Collins?’
‘Hey, don’t diss him.’ Art’s got his moby out. ‘Bottles, cans, even a minikeg. And I’ll make sure you guys are on that jet tomorrow.’
He’s speaking my language. ‘Sure?’
‘Sure. Trust me.’ He opens the box of doughnuts. ‘Hoo boy. Are these vegan?’
‘As vegan as the milk in your coffee.’
‘That was a black coffee.’
Shite. He’s drunk mine. I open the lid and there’s a load of foam. Oat milk foam. And I fuckin’ hate lattes. Twat. ‘Aye, they’re vegan.’ Whatever. ‘Okay, get those beers here.’
‘Sweet.’ He gets out his phone and starts stabbing the screen with a trotter.
‘Need to phone the little lady.’ I take my coffee back out into the hallway.
For once, it doesn’t sound like we’re living in a squat, with thumping and shouting bleeding through the walls. Just merciful peace and quiet.
I hit dial and take a drink of foamy coffee.
‘Brian.’ It’s noisy where she is.
‘You okay, love?’
‘I’m at work and it’s re
ally bloody busy.’
‘Okay, okay. It’s just that New York’s in lockdown.’
‘You say that like I should be surprised. You knew this was coming, didn’t you?’
Fuck it, better play along here. ‘Of course I did. It’s just… When it happens, it’s a kick in the balls. I mean, I spoke to the airline and our flight tomorrow should be good. But…’
‘You didn’t try and get an earlier one?’
‘Fully booked.’
‘Look, it’s tough that you’re not here, but you’re a big boy. You’ll cope. This will be one to tell the grandkids.’
‘Very true.’ I take a slurp of coffee and it’s actually bloody lovely. Like they dingied us on the oat milk and stuck real milk in. ‘So how’s work?’
‘Bloody busy, like I just told you. I’ve got to go. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’ The line’s dead, but my heart isn’t. Can’t believe it took forty-five years to find my soulmate, but there she is.
I finish the coffee and dump it in the recycling bin.
Okay, the way to play this is to take charge, show those pricks who’s boss.
And get absolutely fuckin’ banjaxed.
I stretch out and give myself a shake, pump the old lymphatic system, then swipe back into the room. ‘When’s this mate of yours supposed to turn up, then?’
Art’s staring at his phone. ‘Not far off. And you can trust me on that beer. Lemon stouts and raspberry sours all the way, baby.’
‘Fuckin’ hell.’ That’s like drinking lager these days. ‘Okay, so how about we tuck in to our bottles first?’
There’s a shitload of them and it’ll be fuckin’ hard trying to get them back to the UK at the best of times. Bastards!
‘I’m worried that we’re going to miss our flight tomorrow.’ Elvis has a sour look on his face, like he’s drinking one of Art’s hipster beers. ‘Our plane’s early, like eight. And we need to be there four hours before that, right? And you know what happens when you get a taste for it, Bri.’
Art’s scowling, but his eyes are locked on the beer. ‘Who’s Bri?’
‘I mean Billy. You know what I’m saying, Billy?’
‘Promise you, Elvis, we’ll get that flight tomorrow.’