Davie simply stared at him, his face set in stone. ‘Your batter squad has already had a go at me…’
Irritation flicked across the Colonel’s face. ‘There are no batter squads in this prison, McCall…’
Tell that to my bruises, mate.
‘… and I will not stand for brutality on the part of my staff. If I hear of any such action, I will deal with the offenders decisively.’ The firm jut of the man’s jaw told Davie he meant what he said. But that didn’t mean some of the screws wouldn’t take matters into their own hands.
The Colonel sighed. ‘McCall, the next eight years will be unpleasant, there’s no getting away from it. Prison is not the holiday camp the press like to think it is. You called this place a shithole and that’s exactly what it is. It’s one hundred years old and constantly over-crowded with the scum of the streets. Have you seen Star Wars?’
Davie was surprised by the sudden change in tack and wondered where it was leading, but he nodded. The man opposite nodded back. ‘My grandson is nuts about those films.’
Davie was still mystified as to what this had to with him, but he listened all the same. He had nothing better to do.
‘There’s a line in the first film, Alec Guinness says it, about this town, or space station whatever. He says you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Whenever I hear that line I think of this prison. It’s brutal and it’s inhumane and sometimes it causes more problems than it cures. At its best it’s a shithole, as you say. At its worse it can be hell on earth. It’s up to you what end of that scale you serve out your time.’
Davie knew he was being warned off while at the same time being offered a lifeline. If he co-operated, word would be issued – no ‘special treatment’. If he chose not to co-operate, some of the screws would consider it their duty to make him wish he had never been born, or at least that his father had finished the job back in that small Oatlands flat. The Colonel would not condone it, he would not sanction it, but it would happen all the same.
Davie nodded in agreement. ‘Okay, I’ll do it your way.’
Warmth crept into the Colonel’s eyes then and there was the hint of a smile. ‘Wise choice, son. Let’s hope you and I have no cause for any further conversations of this type.’ He pressed a button on his desk and Davie heard the door behind him open. The interview was obviously over.
As Davie stood up, the prison governor lifted an envelope from the file and threw it across the desk. A letter: Davie was not surprised that it had already been opened. As Davie caught it, he felt something hard inside, like cardboard.
‘That came for you yesterday. She’s a pretty woman…’
Davie’s fingers tingled with shock as he slowly slid the photograph from the envelope. It was Mary McCall, his mother, in a shot taken on the day they went to the country. She was smiling straight at the camera because his dad had just said something funny. Davie felt something tighten in his gut as he stared at the snap, its faded colour raising old ghosts.
‘There was no note with it, just the picture,’ said the Colonel. ‘Who sent it?’
Davie shook his head as if he didn’t know. But he did know. He would have known instinctively even if he hadn’t recognised the writing on the envelope.
Danny McCall was reminding his son they had unfinished business.
7
JACK BANNATYNE HAD been in and out of Luca’s Café every few months since Joe’s death, ostensibly to sample the scones, baked by Luca’s wife. But Luca knew better. He knew the goddamned cop suspected who had really killed Joe the Tailor. He just couldn’t prove it. The visits had stopped three years before, when he was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector and transferred to a station on the South Side. Then Luca heard he had stepped up another rung in the promotion ladder and had taken over the Serious Crime Squad, based in Strathclyde’s Pitt Street headquarters. That was bad news.
It was bad enough that Luca couldn’t shake off visions of Joe Klein, watching him, sometimes talking to him. Luca was not fanciful. He told himself it was no ghost, for ghosts didn’t exist. The visions were merely manifestations of guilt. And he did feel guilty. He had killed many men over the years, but Joe had been different. Luca had to do it – Joe was getting in the way of business and if there was one thing Luca had learned during his years with the New York mob, it was that nothing gets in the way of business – but that didn’t make him feel any better. So he grew used to seeing Joe sitting in his favourite booth in the Duke Street café and hearing his voice in his ear like a whisper on the wind.
But Bannatyne back in the picture was a pain in the ass. It forced Luca to be even more cautious in his dealings, more circumspect as Joe would’ve said, letting Big Rab McClymont take an ever more active role. Rab had someone on the inside who would let him know if eyes were turning in their direction. Occasionally an eager beaver would take it into his head to pay closer attention, but they were dealt with. If they were open to it, a deal was made and the cop walked away with some money in his pocket. If they were incorruptible, a body was given to them, an arrest, a sacrificial lamb, and the nosey cop went off to bigger and better things. Sometimes it was one of Rab’s boys who were given up, but more often than not they steered the law towards someone working for one of the other crews. So Luca felt as safe as he could.
Then Jack Bannatyne came back and slid into his usual seat, as if he had been there only yesterday. He looked the same, but then it had only been three years. His hair was perhaps a touch greyer, his face carrying a few more lines, but his eyes were still bright and sharp. And missed very little.
‘Inspector Bannatyne,’ said Luca, his smile broad as he moved from the counter to greet the man.
‘Detective Superintendent now, Luca,’ reminded Bannatyne as he held out his hand. The two men shook like old friends.
‘Ah, si, si,’ said Luca, his free hand glancing against his forehead. ‘I forget. So what brings you to Duke Street – long time, no see, eh?’
‘Felt the need for one of your wife’s fruit scones, Luca. And a cup of your special coffee.’
Luca nodded, knowing full well that the real reason was yet to come. ‘Coming up.’
Enrico, the second-generation Italian who helped him in the kitchen, was washing up so Luca fetched the scone himself and poured the coffee from the pot he reserved for himself. His customers were happy with instant, but Luca liked his own special blend. So did Bannatyne. He carried the plate with two scones, two pats of butter and the coffee back to the table.
‘Enjoy,’ he said, and would have walked away had Bannatyne not touched him gently on the wrist.
‘Sit a moment, Luca. We’ve not talked for so long.’
Luca shrugged and sat down opposite the detective, who had begun to butter one of the scones. Luca waited as Bannatyne carefully smeared every part of its surface, then took a bite.
‘Perfection,’ said the cop. ‘Mrs Vizzini hasn’t lost her touch.’
Luca inclined his head. ‘I will pass on your good wishes.’
‘Please do.’
It was amazing how quickly they had slipped into their old routine. Even their dialogue had settled into a familiar pattern that they had used so often before.
Then Bannatyne went off script. ‘I hear Davie McCall’s getting out tomorrow.’
Luca tried not to let his surprise show. He had known it was soon, but the following day? His mind feverishly worked out the date and he realised that the day had come without his realising. How could he have forgotten? ‘That is good news,’ he said.
Bannatyne nodded. ‘Not for the person who killed Joe the Tailor.’
‘It was that boy Jazz who murdered my friend.’
Bannatyne smiled. ‘Luca, we’ve been over this before. We know Jazz didn’t kill Joe the Tailor. And you know it, too.’
Luca sighed. ‘You have me wrong. I am but a simple café owner…’
Bannatyne stopped chewing for a moment and gave Luca a hard stare. Then he swallowed th
e lump of scone and inclined his head. ‘Of course you are. But just let me remind you that Davie McCall isn’t like the rest of the neds. He was devoted to Joe and he’s not stupid. He’s going to know that a boy like Jazz couldn’t get to the old man. No, Joe was killed by someone close to him. McCall will work that out, if he’s not done so already. Plenty of time to think in the jail. And someone’s tried a few times to have him killed, I hear. He’s going to want to know who, I’ll bet.’
Luca knew that what Bannatyne said was true. He had been relieved when Davie was sent down for the warehouse robbery. He knew about the attempts on Davie’s life in prison, too. He could not deny that he was disappointed that none of them succeeded. He also knew that Davie was not the type to let sleeping dogs lie. He saw Bannatyne watching him closely but Luca was too experienced to let his thoughts reflect in his face. ‘These things you say are true, but I’m glad Davie’s getting out. We will all be glad to see him.’
Bannatyne nodded, not expecting anything else. ‘Good. Because we don’t want any unpleasantness to mar the peace of our great city, do we? Things have been relatively quiet these past few years. Let’s hope they don’t get out of hand.’ Bannatyne finished his scone and drained his coffee. ‘Always a pleasure, Luca.’ He dropped some coins on the tabletop. ‘That should cover what I owe. Plus tip.’
Luca scooped the money in his hand and nodded. They shook hands again and Bannatyne left with nothing further to say. Luca stood in the aisle looking thoughtfully at the money in his hand but not really seeing it. He must be getting old, missing the date of Davie’s release. He hoped he wasn’t slipping. That could be deadly.
When he looked up he saw the eyes of Joe Klein watching him from his booth.
8
TICK…
The clockwork routine of the little alarm counted the minutes. In prison, where inmates are allowed very few personal belongings, that cheap Made in Hong Kong timepiece was old Sammy’s most prized possession, apart from his supply of fags. It was not the only sound in the cell, for the old man in the bottom bunk still snored softly and the cavernous halls of the Victorian jail continued to echo with various clangs. Davie could not sleep after the dream. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the night-time sounds as his mind roamed over his life in prison.
Tick…
Normally he slept well, even with the dreams, but not tonight. For this was to be his last night inside. The following morning he would slop out for the last time, say goodbye to the few inmates he took anything to do with and then he would be processed and free.
It had been a long time coming.
Tick…
The old clock no longer worked as an alarm, but the single sound it did make told him that time was passing, albeit slowly. It always passed slowly in the jail, slower than he had thought possible. After ten years inside he was an old hand, even if he was only twenty-eight. Old Sammy in the bunk below had been locked up almost twice that time. He had killed a man back in the seventies, gunned him down during a payroll snatch that went wrong. He had been forty then, a handy guy to have around during a blag, certainly. But no gunman. He had tried to stop an accomplice from killing a security guard, but during the struggle the shotgun went off and blew away a chunk of the guy’s chest. Sammy’s accomplice was never caught and Sammy never grassed him up. Only Sammy’s fingerprints were found on the weapon, which was dropped at the scene, and he went down for the murder. He was given Life with a minimum of twenty years and Sammy was bitter and angry about the deal he had been dealt so he took it out on the system. Eventually he settled down and was something of an elder statesman on the galleries.
Davie met him almost immediately after leaving the Governor’s office back in 1982. He was transferred from ‘B’ Hall to ‘A’ Hall and given his new co-pilot. Although Davie had agreed to behave himself, the Colonel had decided not to take any chances and put him in with Sammy.
He was a tall man, a good foot taller than Davie, and his thick grey hair was swept back from his forehead in a wave you could surf on. The bristles on his jaw and chin were showing white but his face was remarkably smooth, only the tell-tale crow’s feet at his eyes betraying his years. He gazed at Davie through narrowed eyes, as if he was sizing him up. Later Davie discovered that Sammy’s eyesight was failing, but he was too vain to wear glasses. However, it was Sammy’s first words he would never forget.
‘So, son – I hear you’re planning to be a fuckwit?’
Davie didn’t know quite how to respond, but Sammy wasn’t one to let it lie. ‘Mug’s game, that, take it from me. I’ve been there, done that, wore the fuckin t-shirt. Done it all, me – hunger strikes, dirty protests, flung my shit around like a fuckin baboon. Got me nowhere, except a series of kickings from the muftis and time added. But see now? Just do my time, get on with it.’
‘You just gave in?’ Davie couldn’t help himself. He may have reached an agreement with the Colonel, but he hadn’t yet decided if he would really stick to it.
Sammy smiled and the expression seemed to take years off his face. ‘Naw, son. Prison’s a force of nature and you can’t win against a force of nature. But hey, it’s up to you, son. You want to be a fuckwit, you go your own merry way. Me? I just hope they don’t come to the wrong bed when they burst in, that’s all. ‘Cos see they screws out there? They think you’re nothin more than animal and you need to be caged. They’re no here to rehabilitate, they’re here to keep you banged up because they and the outside world think that’s what you deserve. And if you do what I think you’re gonnae do, you’ll prove them right. Don’t do it, son. Prove them wrong and get the fuck out of here.’
As time went on, Sammy told him that he had decided to get that speech over with as soon as possible. He wasn’t on the screws’ side, far from it. He felt the prison system could be too dehumanising and when the shit hit the fan, he hoped he’d be there to see it. But all he wanted now was to finish his term and get out, get back to his family. He hadn’t joined the system, not in his head, but merely played it at its own game, used it against itself. Protests just brought you solitary and that made time stretch, an hour banged up in segregation was like a day on the galleries, where inmates had access to recreation, to education, to work.
The screws treated Sammy differently from the other convicts. They knew what he was capable of and they knew he chose not to do it, not because he was beaten or bullied but because he had found another way. Sammy took no shit from any of the young scroats who passed through the hall. Davie once saw him deliver an open-handed slap to a young boy from Govan who stepped out of line. The boy’s eyes burned and Davie was ready to pile in, but Sammy just stepped closer, thrust his chin into the boy’s face and stared at him. That’s all he did, just stared straight into the scroat’s eyes, daring him to make another move. The boy backed down. A screw stood nearby and watched the whole thing. He would have done something had things got out of hand, but he knew the best course of action was to let Sammy deal with it.
It was Sammy who told him how to handle prison life, to focus on the little things and avoid thinking about the big picture. It’s not one day at a time, it’s one hour at a time, he said. Look forward to something every week – pie, beans and chips at teatime maybe, or the few hours a week out in the fresh air. Don’t think about life outside, what you could be doing, because that will make it worse. The prison is your life, its routines your routines. Your peter is a dirty, stinking hole, but it’s home, be it ever so humble. Slopping out is degrading and disgusting, but take comfort in the fact that while you’re standing in line holding your chamber pot and then pouring it down the sluice, the screws are also subjected to the same stench and the sight of the shit getting tipped out.
Not thinking about life outside was made easier after Audrey stopped coming to see him.
Davie would never forget that final visit, shortly after his conviction for Harris. He knew what she was going to say before she said it. He could tell by her stiff features an
d the tension in her muscles as she walked towards the table. He knew what was about to happen and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Even if he wanted to.
‘I can’t do this, Davie,’ she said as soon as she sat down. No beating about the bush. She’d probably been thinking about it for days. He didn’t say anything. He knew she wasn’t finished. ‘I was in court. I heard what happened.’
That surprised him. He hadn’t seen her there. But then he’d been so angry with the deal he was being dealt that nothing else mattered.
‘I really thought you could change. I really did. But you can’t, can you?’
He wanted to tell her that Harris had gone for him, that a screw called Lomas had put him up to it. He wanted to tell her that he had changed, that what he had done was purely in self-defence. But he didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference. But still, he felt something inside wither and die. Even Audrey thought he was a monster.
After that he didn’t send her any visitor passes and she didn’t ask for them. He did not phone her. There were no letters. He saw her by-line in the Evening Times for a time, but then they stopped. For a while he wondered where she had gone, wondered what she was doing, wondered if she ever thought of him. Finally he tried not to think about her at all and he even managed it, at least during the daylight hours when there was something else to take up his attention: work, exercise, meals, routine. But he could not control his dreams. Audrey had represented the possibility of another life, and now that had been taken from him and his subconscious refused to let go. Some nights he would wake up thinking she was there with him, her voice soothing, her fragrance comforting, only to find Sammy’s snores and the stink of the piss pots.
Davie followed Sammy’s advice and kept his head down. There were three further attacks over the years – one witnessed by a screw who was able to state to the Colonel that McCall had reacted purely in self-defence. Even so, they put paid to any notion of early release. Another nobody knew about – Sammy arranged for the attacker to be removed without fuss until he came to, his bruises put down to slipping on a bar of soap. The screw asking the questions didn’t believe a word of it, but he wasn’t inclined to press further. Bars of soap were commonly left on floors in Barlinnie. Tripping and falling over in a peter was also prevalent. Prison can be a dangerous place for the accident prone.
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