February's Son

by Alan Parks

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us? Me? Margaret?’

  ‘Because when I came here it was the first place I’d ever felt safe. I knew nothing bad would happen to me here. I didn’t want to go over it all again. Not even with you or Margaret. I knew you would believe me and that was enough.’

  Murray was still looking out the window, out over the snowy garden. ‘What happened? In the Albany?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said McCoy. ‘I was hitting him but when I saw his signet ring, smelt him, I lost control. I hit him too hard. Stevie pulled me off him but I knew the damage was done, he was going to die.’

  ‘Christ, Harry.’

  ‘So I went back later without Stevie, made it look like Connolly had done it. I knew what to do. Then I started looking for the connection between Connolly and Uncle Kenny. Knew if Connolly had been in care my chances were good.’

  Murray turned, sat back down at the table. ‘And now you want me to stop Crammond?’

  McCoy nodded.

  ‘Christ, Harry, how did you get into this mess?’

  McCoy tried to smile. ‘I have no idea. But I can’t get out, not without you.’

  Murray put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Harry, Harry, what have you done?’

  McCoy looked at him. For the first time he was scared. Scared Murray wasn’t going to help him. Maybe he’d misjudged the whole thing.

  Murray looked up, tears in his eyes. ‘You killed a man, Harry. You’re a polis. No matter what happened you can’t do that, you just can’t.’

  McCoy nodded, panic coursing through his body.

  ‘No matter how much he deserved it. We can’t do things like that. That’s what separates us from them. You understand that, don’t you?’

  McCoy nodded again.

  ‘Understand what it means? What has to happen?’

  McCoy was crying properly now, wiping at his nose with his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Murray pushed the bottle of whisky across the table at him. ‘The boys are staying up in the attic now,’ he said. ‘Your old room’s there, bed’s made up.’

  He stood up. Put his hand on McCoy’s shoulder. ‘Nothing we can do tonight. Try and get some sleep.’

  He whistled and Bruno got up immediately, followed him upstairs.

  McCoy watched them go. Picked up the bottle.

  The garden was quiet, snow muffling everything. He walked across the square of snow that was the lawn and sat down on the bench beside the tree. Remembered sitting here when he first got to Murray’s. Throwing the ball for Bruno for hours on end. Was all he wanted to do then, throw the ball for Bruno, not think about anything.

  He got his fags out, lit up. Took a swig from the whisky. The light in the bathroom upstairs went on for a couple of minutes, went off again. Snow kept falling. He didn’t feel cold, was just happy to be on this bench again, in Murray’s garden. The one place in his life he’d felt safe.

  Maybe this was where he should stay. He felt around in his pockets. The Seconal Dr Purdie had given him, four Mandies left over from the Wizard’s stash. Maybe that and the whisky and the cold would be enough.

  He sat there for a while.

  *

  He woke up, could hear Murray shouting at the boys to get going or they’d be late. Bruno barking. Doors slamming.

  He didn’t think he would but he’d slept. Must have been the old bed that had done it. His room was still the same. Wallpaper with Olympic rings and different sports on it. Wardrobe with a crack in the door. Desk with books piled on it. Picture of a racing car above his bed.

  Had spent a few hours in the cold but decided not to let Uncle Kenny win. He wouldn’t be another Joe Brady. He wasn’t giving them that satisfaction. No matter what the top brass had said, there was no way Uncle Kenny was going to his grave a family man and a respected elder of the church. Not if he had anything to do with it. If he was going down he was taking Uncle Kenny and as many of his pals he could remember down with him. Fuck the lot of them.

  Could hear Murray on the stairs, still recognised his tread after all these years. He sat up. The door opened and Bruno jumped up on the bed, started licking his face. Murray appeared, cup of tea in hand, put it on the bedside table. Didn’t look like he’d slept much.

  ‘Tell me honestly,’ he said. ‘Did we let you down, me and Margaret?’

  McCoy shook his head. ‘No. You were the only ones that didn’t.’

  ‘You sure?’

  McCoy nodded. ‘Never been surer of anything in my life.’

  Murray stood up. ‘Well, best not start now, eh?’ He whistled on Bruno, walked towards the door. ‘Last night didn’t happen. Crammond isn’t going to happen. Now get out your bloody bed. You’re late for work.’

  helpme

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Francis Bickmore, Jamie Norman and all at Canongate. Thanks to Tom Witcomb and all at Blake Friedmann. Thanks to Stephen Fox and Damian Armstrong for their expert advice. Deliberate historical error. The Albany didn’t have a swimming pool. All the others are mistakes . . .

  ‘Detective Harry McCoy is so noir that he makes most other Scottish cops seem light grey’ The Times

  ‘One of the most intriguing, assured and unputdownable debuts to come out of Scotland in recent years’ Sunday Times