February's Son

by Alan Parks

  Simpson stood up, opened the locker door. There wasn’t much inside: a couple of pairs of football boots, a tin of Brut talc, balled-up socks. The remnants of someone’s life.

  ‘Just packing his stuff up for his maw,’ he said.

  Somehow it was always that kind of stuff that stuck in McCoy’s mind. The blood spatter on the ‘Souvenir of Blackpool’ plate hanging on the kitchen wall. The scrapes round the lock on the inside of the cellar door. The discarded socks at the bottom of the locker. Was the kind of stuff he thought about when he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. The damage done.

  ‘McCoy?’

  He turned and Wattie was looking at him.

  ‘Sorry, he ever mention a man called Connolly?’ asked McCoy.

  Simpson sniffed, tried to settle himself. He shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. Who’s he?’

  ‘He works for Elaine’s dad,’ said McCoy.

  ‘The famous Jake Scobie,’ said Simpson. ‘Thought the sun shone out of Charlie’s arse, he did. Wanted to be his big pal.’

  ‘And what did Charlie think about that?’ asked McCoy.

  Simpson hesitated. ‘He didn’t really like him. But he was a bit scared of him, didn’t want to offend him.’

  ‘Why didn’t he like him?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Jake used to take him out for a drink. Supposed to be just Jake and him, but when they got to the pub all Jake’s mates would mysteriously turn up. Jake would kind of parade him about – look at me with my Celtic player son-in-law, that sort of thing. Charlie is a shy guy really, he didn’t like it.’

  ‘How did a shy guy end up going out with someone like Elaine?’ asked Wattie.

  ‘Easy. He was in the first team. Good-looking. Going places. Women were always coming on to him. Elaine set her cap at him and that was that. It happens.’

  ‘Happen to you?’ asked Wattie, grinning.

  Simpson smiled. ‘Not yet. Hopefully one day.’

  McCoy and Wattie stood up to go. ‘Anything else occurs to you, let us know, eh?’

  They were halfway across the changing room when Simpson spoke.

  ‘There was one thing,’ he said. ‘He was a bit drunk couple of weeks ago. We’d been to some club dinner thing, were coming back in the taxi. He said he thought maybe Elaine was seeing someone else.’

  ‘Did he say who?’ asked McCoy.

  Simpson shook his head. ‘He didn’t know who it was, just had the feeling she was getting a bit tired of him. As if she was busy with someone else. Someone new.’

  He’s ordered a tea and a scone. Smiled at the waitress, made some small talk about the bad weather. He can do these things. Shift. Shift what he is, what people think he is. He fingers the pictures in his pocket. Remembered the first time he’d heard about a Polaroid camera. Couldn’t believe it. Meant that finally he could take the kind of pictures he wanted.

  He looks round. Treron’s tearoom. Third floor of the department store on Sauchiehall Street. Him and a sea of ladies in hats and gloves. He looks like a dutiful son awaiting his elderly mother, like a loving husband meeting his wife after a day of shopping.

  Sometimes he can see it, he thinks, in the half-light, in the gloom of a darkened bedroom, the beam of a torchlight shining in someone’s terrified eyes. What he is. The dried and flaking blood on his hands and clothes. The skull shining through the skin. But when he blinks it goes. What he is.

  He can see himself sitting here with her. Her showing him something she’s bought downstairs, him smiling and saying it looks nice. He forces his finger down onto the hard plastic corner of the Polaroid in his pocket, pushes harder until he feels it burst through the skin. Blood on blood.

  He stood up, needed to get to Jessops before it closed. Wanted to buy three more packets of film. After all, he was going to need it . . .

  SEVEN

  McCoy trudged up the steps to Susan’s flat. Could feel his socks squelching inside his shoes. Wondered why everyone he knew lived on the bloody top floor. The wee boy who lived downstairs was sitting on a step wrapped up in an Arran jumper and a balaclava, surrounded by Matchbox cars, McCoy stepped over him, patted his head.

  ‘You all right, Bobby?’ he asked.

  Bobby nodded. Wasn’t one to talk much.

  He reached the top landing, pressed the bell. Even though he was spending most nights there now, they were still at the stage where he didn’t have a key. Heard footsteps then the door was pulled back quickly and Susan stepped out the flat, closing the door behind her. Didn’t look happy.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  She’d a pair of faded jeans on, T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara on it, long cardigan, hair tied up in a scarf. Even when she wasn’t trying she still looked great. She pushed some strands of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Who exactly is Stevie bloody Cooper?’ she said.

  He wasn’t expecting that. ‘What?’

  ‘Him, whoever he is, and some giant thug have been in the bloody flat for half an hour. Sarah was round for a cup of tea, was so awkward she left. The two of them rang the doorbell looking for you. When I said you weren’t here they said they’d wait. Bloody barged in before I could stop them! Who the fuck is he, Harry?’

  ‘Stevie? He’s the guy that was with me in the house. With Teddy Dunlop. I told you!’

  She looked amazed. ‘Him? That’s the guy who got cut with the sword?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Stevie. He’s a friend of mine—’

  ‘A friend? Are you joking? He looks like he’s going to stab someone any minute. I was scared, Harry! I didn’t know who he was—’

  ‘Stevie’s fine. You don’t need to worry about him.’ McCoy tried to calm her down, gave her a hug. Could feel she was shaking. Not good. ‘I’ll take care of it. Okay? He’s a pal. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He let her go, looked into her eyes. ‘Okay?’

  Susan couldn’t have looked less happy if she tried. ‘Just get him out of here. Please?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘And you’re remembering what tonight is? Need to get ready.’

  McCoy nodded. Hadn’t. Did now.

  ‘Course I do. I’ll sort it.’

  McCoy walked into the living room of the flat, Susan following behind. Stevie Cooper was sitting in the armchair by the bay window, mug of tea in his hand, flicking through a copy of Spare Rib, of all things. Cooper wasn’t even the most surprising sight. That was Jumbo. All six foot three of him sitting on the settee munching his way through a plate of biscuits.

  Cooper sat back in his chair, put the magazine down. ‘No at your flat, no at the station, not even at the fucking pub.’ He put his mug down next to the coaster on the coffee table. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve been avoiding me, Harry.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Come on, Stevie, I wouldn’t do that.’ ‘I should fucking hope not,’ Cooper said. ‘Not after what I’ve been through. But you know what, Harry? You’re making me wonder. Two fucking visits. Three weeks I was in that hospital, on my back, forty-two stitches, all because of you, and two fucking times you came to see me. Two times. Not good.’ He shook his head. ‘Not good at all, eh, Jumbo?’

  Jumbo shook his big stupid head, replied through a mouthful of shortbread crumbs. ‘Not good, Mr Cooper.’

  ‘C’mon, Cooper,’ said McCoy. ‘I wasn’t avoiding you. I had things on, had to go and see the psychologist, all sorts of shite.’

  Cooper sat back and lit up a cigarette. He was dressed as he always was: blue jeans, short-sleeved shirt, red Harrington jacket. His blond hair was neatly parted and swept over in a Jimmy Dean quiff, smell of Bay Rum coming off him. Jumbo didn’t quite match his boss’s sartorial elegance. A brick shithouse squashed into old jeans, plimsolls and a red woolly jumper.

  Cooper looked McCoy up and down, at the worn suit and the soaking shoes and the tweed coat with a cigarette burn in the arm. ‘So how’s your wee world been getting on, Harry?’

  ‘Good. Back at work. I think that—’
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  ‘That right? Well, I think too. And what I think is you and I need to have a wee chat.’

  ‘All right,’ said McCoy. ‘How’s about tomorrow? I can—’

  Cooper looked at him, smiled and shook his head. ‘Not tomorrow,’ he said, standing up. ‘Now.’

  *

  ‘Hotspur Street’ was all Cooper said when McCoy asked him where they were going. No more information forthcoming so McCoy gave up trying.

  The three of them walked up Byres Road. It was busy, as a road full of pubs would be. Crossed Great Western Road and kept going up Queen Margaret Drive. McCoy tried to see if Cooper was walking funny, if the sword damage had affected his legs, but he seemed fine, usual rolling stride like a sailor on deck. They crossed the bridge over the Kelvin and Jumbo stopped to throw a penny into the running water below.

  ‘If you cross a river you should throw a penny into it,’ he said. ‘Protects you from bad luck.’

  ‘That right?’ said McCoy.

  Besides granting luck to the penny throwers, the river also acted as the great divide in this part of Glasgow. The area they’d come from, the leafy West End, was full of students, smartly dressed women, academic-looking blokes. Lecturers at the university, workers at the BBC Studios.

  Once they’d crossed the river it was a different story. Now they were in Woodside, Maryhill. Dark streets full of flats where the people who worked in the wee factories and workshops around the canal lived. More Cooper’s scene.

  Hotspur Street was up on the left, a road of tenements overlooking a swing park. Cooper stopped outside the second close. ‘Up here,’ he said.

  They climbed the stairs to the top floor and Cooper knocked the door. A few steps then the door was pulled back, revealing the last person McCoy had expected or wanted to see. Iris. She looked equally pleased to see him.

  ‘Fuck sake!’ she said. ‘I hoped you’d fallen off that bloody roof too.’

  ‘Nae such luck. Thought you were running a sauna now,’ said McCoy as they walked in.

  ‘I was. Then Mr Cooper came to his senses, realised what an asset I was.’

  ‘Got sick of your moaning more like,’ grunted Cooper. ‘This way.’

  He pushed the door open and they went through into the main room. It was dark and hot, smelt of stale beer and stale sex. There was a bloke asleep on the couch, snoring away. He’d no shoes or shirt on, just braces hanging down by his sides.

  A young girl, eighteen or so, falling out her lacy dressing gown, was carefully pouring a bottle of Tennent’s into two mugs. Mission accomplished, she handed one to the other occupant of the room. He was a big fella, no shirt either, just fleshy shoulders and a beer belly covered in black hair and a pair of long boxer shorts. He took the mug from the girl and drew her close. They swayed back and forward, moving to the music coming from the record player in the corner. ‘Three Coins In The Fountain’.

  Neither of the dancers took much notice as they made their way through to the kitchen beyond, just kept swaying to the music.

  ‘Thought you were closing down the shebeens,’ said McCoy. ‘Not opening up another one.’

  ‘Comes in handy,’ said Cooper. ‘I sleep in the back bedroom sometimes, get Iris to make me breakfast. She likes doing it. That right, Iris?’

  Iris plonked a couple of bottles of beer down on the table. ‘Do I fuck. C’mon, Jumbo, you can help me get rid of that fat lump on the couch.’

  They left, and McCoy looked round. Kitchen was big, pulley on the ceiling full of drying bedclothes, crates of drink and towels everywhere, just like every other shebeen he’d ever been in. A bright blue budgie in a cage on a stand in the corner. Whistled at him when he tapped the wire bars.

  ‘Didn’t know you were such a soft touch when it comes to Iris,’ said McCoy, sitting down.

  Cooper shrugged, opened the bottles and handed one over. ‘Needed somewhere to go when I came out the hospital, Memel Street’s a fucking zoo these days. Iris had been moaning away so I set her back up. Suits us both. Besides, she was shite in the sauna, put the punters right off.’

  Cooper took a gold lighter from his trouser pocket, lit up, handed the packet over. McCoy took one. Jumbo reappeared, sat down in the corner, started cooing at the budgie. Last time McCoy’d seen him he’d just managed to stop Cooper killing the poor bastard. Now they seemed glued at the hip. Wasn’t like Cooper to need muscle, he could take care of himself, no trouble. Injury that had put him in hospital must have taken its toll after all.

  Cooper took a long slug of the beer. ‘Tasty wee bird that. How long’s that been going on?’

  ‘Few weeks,’ said McCoy.

  ‘And you’re shacked up there already? Must be love.’

  McCoy shrugged. Wasn’t sure how happy he was about Cooper knowing who Susan was or where she lived. ‘How’s the back?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said Cooper too quickly.

  McCoy knew Cooper too well to think he would tell him the truth. Men like Cooper prided themselves in dealing with anything, be it a pub landlord not paying his dues or a life-threatening wound in your back. He was up and about but the amount of stitches he’d had and the presence of Jumbo told the real story. He was sitting funny too, straight; looked like he might have a brace on under his shirt.

  ‘Jumbo?’ said Cooper.

  Jumbo was up and standing by him in a second. ‘Mr Cooper?’

  Cooper held out a quid. ‘Away and get me some fags.’

  Jumbo looked down at the open packet on the table, fifteen or so left in it. Was about to say something then didn’t. Took the money and headed for the door. McCoy watched him go, waited until he’d left before he spoke again.

  ‘You sure you’re okay, Stevie?’ asked McCoy.

  A flash of anger. ‘How many fucking times do I have to tell you? I’m fine. Stitches are out. All fixed, raring to go.’

  He leant forward, put on a posh woman’s voice. ‘And how about you, Mr McCoy? Has this event affected you psychologically?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Shows how much you know. Psychologist was a man. And from Shettleston of all places, had more of a Glasgow accent than I do.’

  Cooper laughed, leant behind him to get another couple of beers from the crate. ‘You doing that Celtic lad by the way?’ he asked.

  McCoy nodded. ‘You hear anything?’

  ‘What’s to hear? Scobie lost control of that nutter Connolly a long time ago. The guy’s a fucking psycho. He cannae find him now either, got all his boys running about town like blue-arsed flies.’

  ‘How come Connolly’s gone off the rails all of a sudden?’ asked McCoy. He wanted to know what Cooper knew; easiest way was to act daft.

  Cooper looked dismissive. ‘Everyone knows that. Elaine Scobie. Cannae leave the lassie alone. Cunt’s obsessed.’

  ‘You know her?’ McCoy asked.

  Cooper shook his head. ‘No really. Used to see her around couple of years ago, out and about in the town. Used to like the nights out. Liked the bad boys too.’

  McCoy looked puzzled. ‘Charlie Jackson wasn’t a bad boy.’

  ‘Nope, pure as the driven snow him, fucking good player as well. Every father-in-law’s dream.’ Cooper shifted himself in his seat, winced. ‘That Elaine wised up right enough.’

  ‘What? She had enough of the single life?’

  Cooper snorted. ‘Aye right. All she’s doing is making sure Daddy leaves her the money. Settled down with a Celtic player, started staying in nights watching the telly. What more could Scobie want? Got cancer, I hear. Year at the most. Gonnae be a fucking war in the Northside when he goes. Place’ll be up for grabs.’

  ‘Thought Bertie Waller was all set to take over,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Aye well, that’s what Bertie Waller thinks, but Bertie Waller’s just another stupid old cunt.’ He shook his head, looked at him.

  ‘What the fuck am I telling you this for? Doing your job for you. You fucking polis know bugger all about bugger all.’

  ‘So this a social v
isit, is it?’ asked McCoy. ‘Concerned for my mental state, were you?’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘No, it’s not, and am I fuck so don’t come the cheeky cunt.’ He sat back in his chair, winced again. ‘You know something? There’s fuck all to do when you’re lying in your hospital bed for three weeks. Boring as fuck. Especially when your pals don’t even come and visit you—’

  ‘Stevie, I—’

  ‘Can it. You’re forgiven. I don’t blame you. I wouldnae go near a hospital unless I had to.’

  ‘You sure you’re okay, though?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Christ! How many times? Fit as a fiddle. Never better. Dirty big scar on my back but the lassies seem quite taken with it. Wounded bloody soldier.’

  Cooper never was a very good liar; that’s why he hardly ever did it. Hadn’t got any better.

  ‘So what’s with Jumbo then? How come he’s a fixture?’

  Flash of anger across Cooper’s face. ‘Jumbo carries things. That’s what. That okay with you?’

  McCoy held up his hands. ‘Just asking.’

  ‘Asking too bloody much. You ask Murray to get rid of Naismith like I asked you?’

  ‘I’ve been off work, Stevie. I haven’t seen him. I can—’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s done. No thanks to you. The stupid cunt got himself caught with half of bloody Watches of Switzerland in his office. He’ll get a couple of years at least.’ He nodded over at the empty chair by the budgie. ‘Hence Jumbo. Nothing like that is gonnae happen to me. From now on I’m holding nothing, carrying nothing.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Aye well, I’m full of them the day.’ He reached into the pocket of his Harrington, took out a folded bit of newspaper and held it out to McCoy. ‘As I said, not much to do in the hospital. So you end up reading the paper.’

  McCoy took the paper, unfolded it. Was half a page of the Herald. Cooper must have been really bloody bored if he was reading the Herald. A picture taken at some function in the Central Hotel. Four middle-aged men. Three in dinner suits, one in a dress police uniform.