February's Son

by Alan Parks

  He went to the bathrooms, washed the blood off his hands. Supposed he could have spent hours interrogating Spence, would probably have broken, an old man after all. But he was too tired, too sick of it all; the denials, the crying, the horrible fucking details. He dried his hands on a stale-smelling roller towel. Took the picture out his wee red jotter and had another look. Maybe it was the fact that Connolly had a shock of dark hair in the picture that did it but McCoy thought he could remember where he’d seen him now, seen him before he started shaving it off.

  The car crunched round on the gravel and Wattie stretched over and opened the passenger door. McCoy got in, pulled the door shut. Burgess was in the back – black eye, broken nose, cut over his eye and a look of terror on his face.

  ‘You get the tin?’ asked McCoy.

  Wattie nodded. ‘In the boot.’

  ‘You have a look?’

  ‘Started to. Stopped.’

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Back to the shop?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Not yet. Woodilee Asylum, about ten minutes up the road. Head towards Lenzie.’

  He had to make sure. Glasgow was ringed with them. Woodilee, Dykebar, Leverndale. Asylums. Most of them were full of women, women who for the most part just couldn’t cope any more and either broke or just gave up. Poverty, drink, husbands who beat them to fuck, the slow crushing horror of a life always led in fear and terror of what the next day would bring.

  His mum had been one of them. He remembered coming to visit her a few times in Woodilee when he was a boy. Once with Dad, once with a woman from the council. She was still his mum, looked like her, smelt like her, but something had happened. Only found out later it was the electric shocks. They had undone her. Whatever was left of her had spooled away, slipped through her fingers in the fog of lithium, Seconal and fuck knows what else. His Auntie Mary was in there too, smiling at everyone, trying to show them her stuffed rabbit when all anyone could do was look at the ruin in her eyes, at what was left of her after the lobotomy.

  McCoy wasn’t even sure what had been wrong with his Auntie Mary in the first place. He knew she’d had a baby when she was fifteen who got taken away, knew her dad, his Great-uncle Donny, used to thrash her from room to room for ‘being a fucking whore’. She ran away when she was twenty and he didn’t see her until fifteen years later, sitting on a windowsill in Woodilee, dark circles round her eyes, rabbit in her hand, thumb in her mouth.

  ‘This it?’ asked Wattie as they pulled up. Woodilee looked as much like a stately home as anything else. Ornate red sandstone building topped with towers and arches, immaculate grounds.

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘You going to tell me what the fuck we’re doing at a loony bin?’

  ‘Just want to double-check something,’ said McCoy. ‘Sure I saw Connolly here years ago, just want to make sure.’ He turned to Wattie. ‘You all right to stay in the car with this cunt?’

  ‘Long as he doesn’t open his mouth.’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Won’t be long.’

  He checked at the reception desk. Mrs McCoy was still in Ward 9. And no, he couldn’t see her out of visiting hours. He took out his badge, told the torn-faced cow behind the desk it was police business and headed for the corridor leading to the wards.

  The ward sister was a large woman with her hair in braids and a red birthmark on her cheek. She smiled when he came in, got up from her desk, told him Mrs McCoy was sleeping but he was welcome to go and have a look if he fancied. Told him she’d told her all about him. Her big handsome son in the polis.

  The ward was bright, full of light from the tall windows, walls painted a pale yellow colour. He walked down the line of beds. Some held old women more skin and bone than anything else, eyes bright, wondering what was going on; some just mounds beneath the covers, sleeping their days away.

  Sister had told him his mum was in the bed at the end, beside the glass doors. They looked out onto a vast lawn, trees in the distance. He sat down on the chair by the bed, took his mum’s hand in his. His hand was huge compared to hers now, his covered in scars and calluses, hers dry and warm, but they still fitted together. He was back holding his mummy’s hand. She didn’t move, looked out for the count. The drugs, he supposed. He laid his head on the bed, could smell lilac talc; someone must still be bringing it to her.

  ‘She’s a good sleeper.’

  He turned and his Auntie Mary was there. Her toy rabbit’s fur was almost worn away now but she looked much the same.

  ‘I know your name,’ she said. ‘You’re Mary’s boy.’

  He nodded. ‘Harry.’

  She held out her rabbit. He took it, gave it a kiss and gave it back.

  ‘Peter,’ she said.

  A nurse appeared behind her, guided her back towards the entrance to the ward. He looked back down at his mum. Wasn’t really sure what he was doing here. He’d stopped coming a couple of years ago, didn’t seem much point any more. Whatever was left of his mum had gone a long time ago. He stood up. Told her goodbye, kissed her hand and left.

  He knew it was somewhere around here. Could remember sitting in the waiting room waiting to talk to some bored doctor about his mum’s condition. He passed a room with a lot of women sitting at tables making cuddly toys and turned into a long corridor. Sign on the wall: DOCTOR’S OFFICES THIS WAY.

  He kept going and then he saw it, green door with a frosted window and WAITING ROOM written on it. He opened it and went in. There was an elderly woman sitting there, coat and hat on, bag on her knees. She looked surprised to see him. He nodded to her and sat down on one of the orange plastic chairs.

  ‘You all right, son?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Waiting to see the doctor?’

  He nodded again, trying to put her off. Didn’t work.

  ‘Me too. My sister. Nerves. In for her nerves.’

  He tried to remember being here before. Connolly had been sitting by the window, suit on, black hair cut into the wood. Looked like any other visitor.

  ‘Been coming for years.’

  He’d stood up when a receptionist came in and called his name. ‘Mr Connolly? Doctor’s ready for you.’ Connolly’d walked past him on the way to the door, run his hands over his head as he did, smiled at the receptionist.

  And that was it. Nothing else. So he was right. He’d seen Connolly before, didn’t get him anywhere, though. Maybe he was just kidding himself coming here, thinking he would remember something important. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to see his mum, hold her hand. Knew why. He still had the fear deep down inside him, the fear of being found out, the fear of having to tell everyone why he and Cooper had done it. Fear of what would happen to him. Maybe he was just a scared boy looking for his mum to make it all right. He stood up. She couldn’t make it all right, not this time. Only way he could do that was to make sure everyone knew why Connolly who killed Burgess.

  Time to get on with it.

  *

  Wattie had gone home. Spence was in the cells waiting for his duty officer. He’d walked him down there, told the turnkey he was on suicide watch. Turnkey nodded, wrote it on the chalkboard outside his cell. Took his laces, his belt, the blanket, his clothes, put him in a paper suit. Spence watched him dully. Knew what was coming to him, knew he was heading for Barlinnie. McCoy told the turnkey to check him every twenty minutes. No way that cunt was killing himself before he got what was coming to him.

  ‘You lied to me,’ said Spence.

  ‘That’s right,’ said McCoy and shut the heavy iron door.

  Now he was sitting at his desk, watching the clock and waiting for Murray to come out his office. Tried to think about where Connolly could be now. They still hadn’t found him, not a clue as to where he was, even with all the extra men on the job. Maybe that psychiatrist weirdo was right. Maybe he had killed himself, was lying in some empty flat or shitey hotel room, or even in the woods somewhere. Maybe they were looking for a ghost.
/>   Murray’s door opened and he stood there in his shirtsleeves, rolled up over his meaty arms, empty pipe in his hand. He looked exhausted. Waved at McCoy. ‘Come on in.’

  By the time McCoy got in the office and shut the door Murray was easing himself back into his seat behind the desk. He yawned widely, shook himself. Looked up at the clock. Eight o’clock.

  ‘Twelve bloody hours I’ve been in here. Fuck it!’

  He leant back, opened the drawer of a filing cabinet and took out a bottle of Whyte & Mackay and two glasses. Poured a couple of measures into each, handed one to McCoy.

  ‘All the funeral stuff done?’ asked McCoy.

  Murray took a swig, scowled, nodded. ‘Yep. Tight as a crab’s arsehole.’

  ‘You think he’ll turn up?’

  ‘Connolly? Never know, he’s fucking mad enough to. Even if he doesn’t, every other fucking villain in this city will. Big day out. Got Andy and another two photographing everyone, help us to see the runners and riders now Scobie’s out the picture. Gonnae get ugly in the next few weeks.’

  ‘Aye, so everyone keeps telling me,’ said McCoy. He took another swig of the whisky. ‘You speak to Spence?’

  Murray nodded. ‘Wasnae saying much, wants to wait for his solicitor. Had a look in the fucking biscuit tin, though.’ He rifled through his papers until he found the photo of Burgess on the riverbank, peered at it. ‘It’s definitely him, isn’t it?’

  McCoy nodded.

  Murray rifled around again. ‘I told Thomson to go through the tin. See if he can identify anyone. I couldnae face it.’ He held out a photo. ‘He found this.’

  McCoy’s stomach lurched. Was scared of what he was going to be looking at. Of what it might be. Of whom it might be. He took it, looked down. It was Connolly, thick black hair, smile on his face. It looked like he was in some sort of tent. He was naked, Burgess sat beside him in a pair of underpants, arm round his shoulder. He handed it back.

  ‘It’s enough to connect them, to give us a motive for the murder. Don’t need any testimony from anyone else.’

  McCoy poured himself another belt, drank it over. ‘That’s good.’

  Murray looked at him. ‘Something I need to tell you.’

  ‘Oh aye, what’s that?’ asked McCoy, voice sounding wobbly. Fear rising. Him and Cooper arrested. Convicted.

  ‘Nobody’s going to know.’

  ‘What?’ asked McCoy, not understanding.

  ‘Burgess was an elder of the church. A decorated senior police officer with forty years’ service. Wife and two kids, grandkids. Right Worshipful Master of the Chief Super’s Lodge. All-round pillar of the community. Chief Super would rather it stayed that way.’

  He could feel Murray watching him, looking for a reaction.

  ‘Connolly was a psychopath with a hatred of the police. Picked Burgess at random and that’s why he got killed. No rhyme or reason to it. Just bad luck. You okay with that?’

  McCoy nodded. Truth was he didn’t care. No connection to him and Cooper was all that mattered. Cooper and him had done what they needed to do. The fucker had been tortured to death. The account was settled.

  ‘Spence?’ he asked.

  ‘Be spending the rest of his life in Barlinnie getting battered every week and drinking tea with piss in it,’ said Murray.

  McCoy stood up. ‘All’s well that ends well.’ He finished the last of his whisky, put the glass down on the desk.

  Murray looked at him. ‘You sure you’re okay about all this, Harry? You know you can speak to me if—’

  McCoy held his hands up. ‘I’m fine. Honest. Now, why don’t you buy me a drink and we’ll talk about something rather than the bloody case? You can even talk about bloody rugby.’

  Murray smiled, took his coat off the peg, followed him out the door.

  After an argument about where they were going to go they ended up in Macintosh’s in Cambridge Street. Not too loud for Murray, far enough from the shop that they wouldn’t meet any other polis for McCoy.

  Murray sat at a table while McCoy went up to the bar. There was a group of young guys in the corner, sports bags at their feet, wet hair, must have come from playing football. Other than them and a few couples, the place was quiet. McCoy ordered two pints and two whiskies and carried them back over to Murray.

  He’d got his pipe out and was happily puffing away despite the theatrical coughs of a woman a few tables away. ‘Need you to do me a favour,’ he said, trying his pint.

  McCoy had just swallowed his whisky over in one, frowned. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Like you to talk to David,’ said Murray.

  ‘He still staying with you? Him and Colin?’

  Murray nodded. ‘Haven’t got rid of the buggers yet. Were supposed to be with us for six months, coming up for three years now.’

  McCoy grinned. ‘What’s Margaret got to say about that?’

  ‘You know her, she’d keep any of them for ever but they’re almost seventeen now.’

  ‘You no getting a bit old for all this fostering malarkey?’

  ‘Far too old. But the council called Margaret the other day. Thirteen-year-old twins. Nowhere else to go. Colin and David need to make way.’

  ‘So what is it I’m supposed to be doing?’

  ‘Colin’s all sorted. Starting an apprenticeship next month. David’s a bit lost. Just finished school, no idea what he wants to do. Want you to talk to him about joining the polis.’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘Things don’t change much in your house, do they?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Murray. ‘He’s a big lad, sensible. Would suit him. You can tell him how it made a man of you.’

  ‘Did it?’ McCoy grinned.

  ‘Don’t push it, son.’ He held up his glass. ‘Another?’

  They had a couple more pints. McCoy told Murray he’d talk to the boy. Murray told McCoy all about how the Police Rugby League was getting on and he nodded, not listening to a word. Was getting to half nine when Murray stood up to go, started putting his coat on.

  ‘What you doing?’ he asked.

  McCoy took his wee red jotter out his pocket, held it up. ‘Going to have another pint and a think.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the funeral at nine. See if you can come up with something by then.’

  McCoy said he would, watched him go. Was only a mouthful left in his pint glass, time for another, but time for a pee first. He swallowed the dregs, headed for the toilets. They smelt like most pub toilets did, of piss and those wee yellow cakes that sat in the trough. He stood up on the ledge, unbuttoned his fly and started peeing. He heard the door open behind him but did as toilet etiquette required and kept staring at the wall in front of him.

  He felt a hand on the back of his head for a second before it rammed his forehead hard against the wall. Held it there, his face squashed into the cold tiles. He tried to move but whoever was holding him was strong, stronger than he was. Could feel the pee running down his leg, felt warm breath in his ear, squirmed, tried to get away.

  ‘You weren’t on my list,’ the voice said. ‘But you are now.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  McCoy could feel Connolly’s breath against his check, smell it. Smelt like something rotten, dead. He couldn’t move, forehead scraping against a cracked tile on the wall. Felt a punch in his side, another, and Connolly pressed his head harder into the tiles. McCoy tried to kick out backwards, make contact with something, a leg, anything. Was hitting air.

  Connolly hissed in his ear. ‘Think yourself lucky you only got spat in the face or you’d be getting worse than this.’

  Smell of him was revolting. McCoy tried to struggle. Sickeningly he could feel that Connolly had a hard-on, could feel it pressing into his back. Then he was in his ear again.

  ‘You dirty little fucker, you’re going to get what’s coming.’

  McCoy managed to move his head slightly, get his face off the wall. ‘Get off, you cunt!’

  Connolly laughed, punched him again. ‘It’s the o
nes like you I enjoy. Ones that start off like big men and end up peeing their drawers and crying for their mammy. And believe me, McCoy, you’re going to cry.’

  Another punch and McCoy tried to cry out. His whole side felt like it was on fire. He could hear the jukebox outside in the pub, someone laughing. All seemed very far away. Tile was cutting into his skin, could feel blood running into his eye. Knew he was in trouble, visions of Charlie Jackson on the roof.

  Then the noise of the door opening behind him and a surprised-sounding voice. ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

  Felt a sharp pain down his side and the hand grabbed his neck, pulled it back and smashed his face off the wall again. He fell down, half in, half out the trough, turned in time to catch a glimpse of the back of a bald head and a razor being lifted then brought down on the face of the old man standing at the toilet door.

  The man’s face opened, a sheet of blood appearing.

  Connolly turned back to him, grinned, drew his finger across his neck. ‘I’ll see you later, McCoy. I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.’ Stepped over the old man and the growing puddle of blood and disappeared out the door.

  McCoy tried to stand up, didn’t feel good, put his hand on the tiled floor to try and steady himself and it slid in the warm blood covering the floor. The old man was on the ground, hands up at his face. The door closed and McCoy was left lying there in his own piss and blood. He scrambled to his feet and wobbled into the wall, looked down. Blood soaking through his shirt.

  The door half opened. A woman’s voice. ‘Willie? You okay in there?’

  ‘Help us,’ said McCoy. ‘Help.’

  *

  Susan was sitting at the kitchen table when he got in, notepads and books spread all over it. He leant over and kissed the back of her neck. Put the four cans of Export down on the table.

  ‘Someone smells like they’ve been to the pub already,’ she said and looked up.

  ‘Jesus, Harry! What happened?’

  He had stitches in his eyebrow, a burst lip and a pyjama top from A&E on under his coat. He sat down on the couch, winced in pain. ‘I’m okay, honest.’