by Owen Mullen
Poor judgement. Weakness. His. This Cameron character was the last card.
Sean had been impressed with the show Rocha had put on for their benefit. Jimmy saw beyond it. Despite his wealth, at heart Emil Rocha was a peasant, somebody Rafferty understood, a man cut from the same block. Both were patient. They could wait, and their anger never dimmed. Still there was something he couldn’t put his finger on. If the circumstances were reversed how long would it be before he tired of waiting?
Jimmy knew the answer and it bothered him. The money, the woman; they should have heard from Rocha before now. So why hadn’t they?
The old man’s left arm shook. He threw the hated stick to the floor. Kevin asked again. ‘Tell us what to do about Cameron.’
The patriarch dredged strength from some final reserve. He turned and faced his boys.
‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘Lift the fucker.’
Thirty-Five
I lay for a while with my eyes closed, listening to the sound of birds and the growl of a passing car with an exhaust problem. Sunlight flooded the room. It was strange to know that in a matter of hours I could be dead. As Patrick Logue might say, I’d got a good day for it.
Since the beginning of the week my pal had sat like a sentinel at the bar, nursing his juice, popping his head round the office door every so often to make sure nothing bad had happened to me. Touching. At first. Until it became annoying. His logic escaped me: at night when I was most vulnerable he was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t slept in the flat since Friday. I guessed he was taking comfort from the storms of married life in a less demanding port.
I showered. When I shaved my hand was steady. The face in the mirror surprised me by the calmness in the eyes. No butterflies in the belly, no sign my life might be about to end painfully.
Cecelia McNeil had faith. I had little spiritual strength to draw on. Yet something coursed through me. I’d reached my breaking point in the office when the truth was revealed. And now, now I was all right.
What could Rafferty do to me worse than Fiona had already done?
It was difficult not to invest every action with special meaning; when I caught myself musing on whether I’d ever boil the kettle again I laughed; an over-developed sense of the dramatic wasn’t needed. I took the envelope from my pocket and put it on the table where Mrs McCall was sure to see it – the least I could do for someone who had worked for me for half a decade without ever being asked their first name.
Cleveden Drive was quiet. The promise of sun had been an empty one, clouds blanketed the sky and it was cold. Not such a good day for it after all. I tugged at my coat collar, started the car and pulled away, wondering if it was the last time...
Get a grip, Charlie.
The Big Issue guy was back on the corner – early for him – better dressed than usual, wearing a new coat. I stayed well clear; another tirade was more than I could handle. Perhaps he sensed it because he left me alone. Jackie was busy behind the bar doing Roberto’s old job. I probably wouldn’t be clogging-up the energy much longer. My sense of the ridiculous was headed towards the macabre. Nerves. Patrick was in his usual spot with newspaper and juice, a reformed man. Like glue he’d said and he’d meant it. He looked me up and down, checking I was still in one piece, and went back to reading the football gossip.
I sat in the office and considered what I was going to do. The cases had petered out: I was unemployed. I couldn’t just wait for Rafferty to come. Patrick Logue’s opinion was that Jimmy Rafferty wasn’t a man I could reason with. But hell, what was there to lose? The easiest way was to tell one of his heavies I wanted to speak to his boss. I’d seen no sign of anyone following me, but they would be around. Downstairs Patrick wasn’t on his barstool. He’d be against what I planned and would stop me if he could.
I spoke to Jackie. ‘Where is he?’
‘Gone to the toilet I think.’
All that orange juice.
In Scotland you can have four seasons in a morning; this was one of those days. Rain was falling, heavy enough to leave puddles. I turned towards Cochrane Street. The Big Issue seller saw me and screamed. He charged at me. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was a frightening sight: hair matted against his cheeks, eyes wild, waving his arms and yelling.
He shot past into two men behind me. Rafferty’s men. I hadn’t seen them. The three of them went down. Across the street a black car mounted the kerb and screeched to a halt. The doors flew open. My jaw fell. The feeling of unreality, of not quite believing I was in danger, cracked like glass and fell away. Adrenaline kicked in and I ran.
The lights at the City Chambers were green; traffic was moving. I dodged between a bus and a car, stumbled and almost got hit by a Renault. The driver was a woman; there was a baby in the back seat. The horror on that lady’s face was something I wouldn’t forget; one second she was smiling, the next a man jumped in front of her and disappeared under her wheels. Momentum rolled me off the road on to the pavement. She wasn’t so lucky. She braked, too late to save me if I’d been in the way. The crash of metal against metal told me she’d have some explaining to do. And her husband wouldn’t believe she wasn’t to blame.
I raced through George Square. The steady drizzle meant there were few people around; those who were paid no attention. I assumed Rafferty’s thugs had recovered and weren’t far behind. My heart hammered; my throat and lungs were beginning to burn; better for me if I had listened to Gary. Someone called my name. Surely they didn’t expect me to stop? I kept going. Queen Street station offered alternative exits. Perhaps I could lose them in Buchanan Street. I’d never know because a better option arrived. The station concourse was busy. I burst through the doors and made a decision. Ahead of me a guard was closing the gate. Without thinking I vaulted the barrier, landed clean and sprinted for the last carriage. The door shut with me half in and half out, pressing against my shoulders before releasing me from its grip. I fell inside and heard it swoosh behind me.
I lay exhausted, shaking, close to passing out; gulping air into my tortured lungs, expecting Rafferty’s men to arrive and drag me away. It didn’t happen. Nothing happened. The train juddered to life and crawled out of Glasgow with me trembling on the cold floor.
I was safe. For the moment.
A voice, soft with concern, was the first thing I heard. The first thing I saw was a tartan scarf. ‘Are you all right, son?’ A man in his sixties peered at me through thick spectacles. ‘Only just made it, eh?’
I gathered myself together.
‘Was my wife that saw you. Says you burst on like this was the last train out of hell.’ He smiled. ‘Let me help you.’ He took my arm and hauled me to my feet. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘you’re okay. Sit down. Get your breath back.’
I thanked him. ‘Must be something awful important to put a rush on like that. A girl, I’m thinking.’
It was simpler to agree with him. ‘I’m already late. Can’t keep her waiting any longer.’
‘Especially if she’s a looker. Felt the same myself when I was your age. Slower now. But I still get there.’ He winked and went back to his seat. His wife added her smile. I moved through the carriages until I was nearer the front. The train was half-full; people read or rested their arms on their backpacks or stared at the Campsie Hills; the tourist season was beginning. I didn’t need to ask where we were going, I knew.
I had eluded Jimmy Rafferty’s men, but for how long? The Glasgow/Edinburgh service ran every twenty minutes, they’d be on the next train. Rafferty would have connections in the east, by the time we drew into Waverley, they’d be in position.
Out of the frying pan.
With one advantage: they hadn’t actually seen me; they would be working from a description. I could change my appearance and gain a little time. Once I was clear of the station losing myself in the crowds that haunted Scotland’s capital wouldn’t be difficult.
Falkirk High was the first stop. The train slowed. I considered getting off, but then I would b
e in the middle of nowhere, a sitting duck. Edinburgh gave me a hiding place until I figured out what to do.
I called Patrick. No service. None of the people coming on resembled Rafferty’s thugs; that thought brought me comfort. We stopped a couple of times. As we approached Edinburgh Haymarket my fears returned. Haymarket was minutes from where our journey ended. I expected company and I wasn’t disappointed.
Two solidly built men with the permanent frown of the not very bright scowled their way on to the last carriage. Their knuckles didn’t drag on the ground but I’d bet their grandfathers’ had. Starting in the middle and splitting their efforts would’ve made better sense considering how close we were to Waverley.
I approached the man who had spoken to me at the start.
‘Excuse me, can I buy your scarf?’
He fingered it. ‘What do you want with my old scarf?’
‘Call it a peace offering.’ My turn to wink.
His wife nudged him and gave young love her support. ‘Go on, Alec. Give him it.’
He took it off and handed it to me. ‘MacDonald,’ he said. ‘Alec MacDonald. You’re not a Campbell by any chance?’
‘Cameron.’
‘That’s okay. Wouldn’t give it to a Campbell. Cameron’s fine. Not related to the whisky people, are you?’
‘Wish I had their money.’
‘You’d only find more expensive ways to be unhappy. That scarf’s a lucky scarf. Was wearing it the last time we beat England.’
‘As old as that?’
Leave them laughing, Patrick said. I edged forward, through the carriages. On the way I ditched the coat and put on Alec MacDonald’s scarf. It didn’t make a big difference, it was the best I could do.
A voice announced: ‘Waverley station! This service terminates here!’
I looked over my shoulder for Dumb and Dumber. A woman with a push-chair was right behind me. I helped her down the stairs and walked beside her. The sullen child looked up at me; a boy. I leaned in and talked gibberish to him until we were clear of the platform, then I was off again, dodging past strangers, no clue where I was going or what to do when I got there.
If I got there.
The coat was no loss; it was a much better day in the east than in Glasgow. I took the Waverley steps two at a time. Princes Street basked in the late morning sun. My eyes darted right and left, trying to discover who was interested in me. I remembered there was another exit from the station – the idiots from the train might come that way. The human traffic swallowed me. I hoped it would be enough. At North Bridge Street I checked again and saw no one suspicious. From there on I forced myself to walk. For a second I considered booking into the Carlton hotel and calling DI Platt. I resisted and tried Patrick’s number again - it was engaged.
Cockburn Street rose in front of me, veering right, climbing towards High Street and the Royal Mile. Halfway up I looked down the cobbled road, searching for my pursuers. No one was after me. My reflection in a bookshop window took me by surprise. I was still wearing the scarf. The man on the train said it was lucky. I needed all the luck I could get. The scarf stayed. At the top I hid in a Starbucks, ordered a latte and stood by the window, watching. I didn’t have to wait long. Somehow the heavies who boarded at Haymarket had guessed where I was going. It hardly seemed possible. They were big guys, over-weight. Cockburn Street was steep, too much for one of them. He bent over, hands on his knees, shoulders heaving, shaking his head when his pal urged him on. I stood away from the glass.
They headed down the Mile to John Knox’s house and Holyrood Palace. That made my decision easy; Edinburgh Castle had over a million visitors a year. Today I would be one of them.
I was doing all right, but where did it end? If they missed me now there was always tomorrow. I picked up the pace. At Castlehill a woman crossed the street, facing away from me. Her hair was long; black curls cascaded down her print dress. She shrugged them away, it was Fiona. Everything I’d learned – the lies, the deceit – was forgotten. I called to her.
‘Fiona! Fi..!
The cry died in my throat. She turned. It wasn’t her.
I was remembering another Fiona, the girl I’d fallen in love with. She didn’t exist, she never had.
Pat Logue got it wrong. I should’ve gone to Rafferty at the start, told him how it was; explained. Patrick had been intimidated by the gangster’s reputation, his fear had infected me. My failure to act had brought me to this, being chased through Edinburgh, hunted for something I knew nothing about.
After Castlehill, high on the plug of an extinct volcano, grey and magnificent, the castle towered to the sky. I saw people on the battlements, tiny figures, flashes of colour in a sea of stone. In the warm spring light, with a blue sky that went on forever, it was the most impressive thing. This wasn’t the time to appreciate it, I had my own drama going on. I’d been here once, on a school trip; short trousers and larking about; sticking our heads into the mouth of the big gun. Not a care in the world, unlike today.
The Esplanade opened broad and flat with the castle at one end, the entrance at the other, and grandstands down both sides. People from all over the world came for the Tattoo every year in August. They’d fill those seats night after night. I crossed the bridge at the far end – wanting to run, willing myself to stroll – and joined the queue for tickets. The place was thick with tourists. I searched the faces for Rafferty’s men. Talking to the gangster seemed a ridiculous notion now; he would have what he was after or he would kill me. It was that simple.
The queue moved quickly. In minutes I was at the ascent to the Lower Ward. Granite rose on either side, cold in the midday sun. I followed a couple of teenage lovers, whispering in French, unaware of anyone but each other. A battery of gun barrels poked like black fingers above me, if I kept going I’d be where they were. Hurrying would mark me as different from those studying guide books and maps. Hiding in plain sight was all the hope I had because I’d made a mistake, perhaps a fatal mistake. I’d chosen the higher ground thinking I’d be safe.
Far from it. The castle guaranteed crowds, that was its advantage, but it was a dead-end. Some instinct ordered me to look back at just that moment and I saw them at the gatehouse. Not the fools I’d lost in High Street. These two were new; their expressions and the way they carried themselves told me all I needed.
I was trapped, as much a prisoner as any who had enjoyed the hospitality of the dungeons. And there was no escape.
They hadn’t spotted me, not yet. I couldn’t stay here, sooner or later I’d have to leave, when I did they’d be waiting.
A lady with a red umbrella leading a party of about twenty walked by. The umbrella was open, a focal point so the group knew where she was. At the height of the season there would be more visitors and many more umbrellas. I tagged on; a few steps placed me near the centre. She pointed to a line of light artillery on her left.
‘Here on the Middle Ward is the Argyle battery,’ she said. ‘The One O’Clock Gun stands alone. It is fired every day except Sunday. The original purpose was to give an accurate time check to ships in Leith harbour. Not necessary nowadays, but the tradition survives. At midnight every thirty first of December they use the gun to announce the start of a new year – the signal for a quarter of a million people to party on Princes Street.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘We’re early, we’ll come back in time to see the district gunner do his stuff.’
An excited murmur passed through the group. Americans love history. The guide smiled, an old hand who knew how to tease the most from the tour. The party turned left. She told us we’d arrived at the Upper Ward and went into another spiel. Her voice droned on. I switched off.
Thirty yards down the hill a guy with a scar from ear to chin was coming towards me. It was Kevin Rafferty. He looked straight at me and away. I’ll never know why he didn’t see me. I’d been about to abandon the cover the tourist group gave; that changed my mind. I followed them into the chapel, squeezing my way to the
front. The chapel was small; it was a crush. That suited. The more bodies between me and them the better, except now I really was trapped. The guide was in full flow. I didn’t hear a word she said. My heart was a banging drum. Cold sweat dried on the back of my neck. My mobile rang – it startled me. The tourists glared, I was spoiling the moment. It was Patrick Logue.
‘Where are you?’
‘Edinburgh.’
‘I know that, where in Edinburgh?’
‘The Castle.’
‘Stay with it, Charlie. We’re comin’.’
‘For Christ’s sake make it quick.’
The party filed out of St Margaret’s. I was last to leave. If they were there it was over, Rafferty would have me. Even if I could give him what he wanted, death would follow.
The sunshine hurt my eyes. Our guide gestured to a curved line of guns. I heard the words Half Moon battery. She started back the way we’d come with the Americans trailing her red umbrella. The decision wasn’t mine any longer, the group couldn’t protect me now. I quickened my pace, not certain whether my enemy was ahead or behind, and moved to the parapet next to Crown Square. Far below in the Grassmarket, people and traffic went about their business.
When I looked back scarface was watching, his ruined skin stretched white along the slash. I darted to my right. Laughter, raw and rasping, from deep in his throat followed me. His gaze went beyond me to his partner, inviting him to share in the joke. I’d had the whole of Edinburgh to choose from. If only I’d gone another way, doubled back, or jumped in a taxi.
