Crow Bait

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘I just want to know why.’

  Lomas squinted. ‘Why what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  Lomas nodded, his breathing a bit more regular now but his hands still shaking. ‘You’ve spoken to that shitehawk Harris.’

  Davie nodded and waited. Lomas raised a trembling hand to his face again, this time to scrape his knuckles against the sweat on his brow. He stared at the damp smear on his hand as if it was a sign. ‘Ach, fuck it – I was paid to set you up.’

  ‘Who by?’

  Lomas smiled. It was the same smile he’d seen on Harris earlier, the smile of greedy men thinking they could make a buck. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  Audrey had given Harris money. Davie had no intention of giving Lomas anything. ‘Tell me and you stand a good chance of walking out of this cemetery.’

  Lomas’s smile froze and transformed into a scowl. ‘You’ve no changed, McCall. You’re still a fuckin ned.’

  ‘You’re the pot, I’m the kettle, Lomas. Who paid you?’

  Lomas shook his head. ‘You’ll get no name from me. There’s people out there scarier than you.’

  Davie said softly, ‘They’re not here, Lomas. I am.’

  Lomas was fully aware of the threat but shook his head again. ‘You’ll hurt me, sure. You’ll maybe even hurt me bad but see these folk? They’ll have me killed. You’re no killer, Davie McCall…’

  There’s a first time for everything, Davie was about to say, but then he saw the figure loom from the trees. A hand wrapped over Lomas’s mouth and he was dragged back into the shadows. It was very swift, very fluid and Davie was shocked for a moment but then he ran forward, his eyes searching the darkness for the two men. He became aware of the two shapes ahead of him being enveloped by the gloom, then heard a muffled squeal. He followed the sound, moving slowly, every nerve on alert for an attack.

  ‘Lomas,’ he whispered.

  A soft groan floated through the darkness followed by the crump of something hitting the ground. There was a rustle as somebody squeezed through bushes, then silence. Davie followed the sounds, ears straining for a footfall, eyes alert for an attack.

  He found Lomas on the grass a few feet away, his eyes open and staring at the sky. As Davie knelt beside him he knew the man would never see anything again.

  He didn’t touch the body for fear of leaving something of himself on it that could lead the police to him. He scanned the area around him, still expecting some kind of attack, but saw nothing, just thick green bushes and the trees behind. Hairs prickling on the back of his neck made him think someone was watching.

  Watching, waiting.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ he said, softly.

  A breeze made the bushes tremble, but no-one answered.

  ‘So you’ve turned chib man now, eh?’ He didn’t need to turn the body over to find the wound. He could tell by the way that Lomas had been dragged back that a knife was being buried into his back. And even though he hadn’t seen the assailant clearly, he knew who it was.

  ‘You always told me weapons were for losers,’ Davie went on, trying to goad some kind of response. He stood up, slowly spinning 360 degrees, expecting his father to rush out of the bushes at any moment. But the only thing that disturbed the leaves was the waft of a gentle breeze. Then he heard a flutter of wings, as if something had been disturbed, so he turned in their direction, prepared for an attack. But there was only darkness.

  ‘I know you’re still there,’ Davie said. ‘Why don’t you come out? We’ll finish it right here.’

  Davie waited but saw nothing, heard nothing. He backed out of the circle of bushes, through the trees, body tensed, nerves alert, towards the path. He stood for a few seconds, peering into the deep shadow of the foliage, still expecting to see a face not unlike his own staring back at him. But nothing appeared.

  He was beginning to relax when he heard a movement behind him and he whirled, right fist clenched, ready to lash out. Audrey cried out in shock, stumbling backwards and almost losing her footing. Davie grabbed her just in time, pulling her closer to him. Despite what had just happened, she felt good.

  ‘Davie,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Where is he?’

  He held her by one hand, his other arm around her waist. Her fingers felt cool, her body warm and soft. He didn’t want to let go but he did. He tried not to look back at the bushes as he said, ‘We have to go.’

  Her worry gave way to suspicion. ‘Davie, what happened?’

  He pulled her away. ‘Never mind. It’s best you don’t know.’

  She planted her feet firmly on the cement path and peered over his shoulder to the bushes, trying to see what it was he didn’t want her to see. ‘Tell me, Davie…’

  He knew she would not budge until he told her. ‘Lomas is dead.’

  Her suspicion gave way to shock. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. He knew thoughts would be flooding her brain, one uppermost. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said.

  She gazed into his face, searching his eyes for a lie. ‘Who then?’

  This time he did lie. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t get a clear look.’ He didn’t need a clear look. He knew.

  ‘There was another man, following you. That’s why I came after you.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Couldn’t really see him well enough. About your height, dark hair, maybe going grey. Dark jacket, thick wool, collar up. That’s all I saw.’

  He placed a hand on her back and gently propelled her away from the bushes again. He had to get her away from this place. He looked across the graveyard wall towards the city glowing in the dark, at the silhouette of the tower blocks, broken up by squares of light. He didn’t think anyone would have seen anything, not in the dark graveyard, but it wasn’t a good idea to hang around. As they walked he said softly, ‘You were never here, understand? Anyone should ask, you were never here.’

  He glanced at her face as they moved and saw her mouth was fixed in a tight line and her eyes were wide and staring. He berated himself for letting her come with him. But addiction was like that.

  As they walked away, he heard someone whistling somewhere back in the darkness. He couldn’t make out the tune, but it was slow and sad and floated through the tombstones like a ghost.

  18

  AUDREY DIDN’T ASK Davie any questions as they drove from Sighthill to Sword Street. He knew her mind would be reeling and suspected that she did not fully believe him when he said he’d had nothing to do with Lomas’s death. That saddened him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Seeing her today had proved more painful than he could imagine, but there was no future for them. Even if she hadn’t been married, there was too big a gulf between them. She now knew he had told the truth about Donald Harris. But tonight’s events would mean she could never completely trust him. He couldn’t blame her.

  She stopped her car at the mouth of Sword Street and he climbed out without a word. But he couldn’t leave without saying something. He leaned back into the open door. ‘I didn’t do it, Audrey.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, not looking at him. But she didn’t know. She couldn’t be sure. He could tell by the way she stared intently through the windscreen, by the way her hands were wrapped tightly on the steering wheel, by the way the muscles on her jaw clenched and unclenched.

  ‘It’s best you stay away from me,’ he said, his voice sounding very far way. This was the last thing he wanted to say. ‘It’s not safe. Not around me. Not just now.’

  She turned to face him then and he saw her green eyes swimming. ‘That’s just it, isn’t it, Davie? It’s never safe around you. You’re like some sort of magnet, attracting violence and death. And you stroll through it all unscathed, untouched. How can you live like this?’

  He had no answer for her. He stood at the side of the car silently. Then he carefully closed the door and said, ‘Goodbye, Aud.’

  A tear broke from her eyes and trickled down her cheek. She looked as if she might sa
y more, but thought better. She threw the car into first gear and drove off.

  Davie watched the car’s rear lights grow smaller as it moved down Duke Street. He felt something hard and painful blocking his throat. She was right, he realised. He was a magnet for violence, for death.

  But he didn’t come through it untouched.

  * * *

  Frank Donovan was waiting in his car at the closemouth as Davie approached. Davie recognised him immediately as he climbed out, a welcoming smile on his face, and his first thought was whether Donovan had seen Audrey. He decided that the junction with Duke Street was too far way to make her out, although he must’ve seen her car. Then he wondered if Lomas had been found already and they’d somehow linked him to it. But the smile was friendly enough, even if Davie didn’t return it. He didn’t feel much like smiling and he hadn’t forgotten that Donovan was a cop.

  ‘Good to see you, Davie,’ said Donovan. ‘But I’m getting a hellish feeling of déjà vu.’

  Davie knew what he meant. It had been a night like this, although a lot warmer, that Donovan had spoken to him on this very spot about Joe’s death. Later that night Clem Boyle shot the detective. Davie was surprised that Donovan was even back here. Showed guts. Even so, he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. ‘Why you here?’ Davie asked.

  ‘To thank you for what you did that night.’

  ‘Didn’t do it for you.’

  ‘I know that, but I thought I’d thank you anyway. You helped bring that bastard Boyle down.’

  ‘All I did was fight him. Your boys did the rest.’ Armed police had shot Boyle, just before he was about to shoot Davie, but he had never felt the need to thank them for saving his life. Yet here was Donovan, thanking him. He suspected there was something else behind this visit.

  ‘I’ve been asked to have a word with you, Davie,’ said Donovan, his smile vanishing. ‘My bosses want to know what you’re going to do now you’re out.’

  ‘They going to offer me a job?’

  Donovan gave a small laugh. ‘Not likely. They think you’re going to go on some sort of revenge mission. Over Joe.’

  Davie nodded in understanding. So the police didn’t think Jazz was working alone either. Interesting.

  ‘Do we have something to worry about, Davie?’

  ‘No.’

  Donovan stared at him, just as intently as Audrey had earlier, trying to spot a lie. Davie stared back, seeing doubt in Donovan’s eyes. Eventually, though, the cop exhaled deeply and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, but in that one word he told Davie that he remained unconvinced. He wasn’t stupid, this cop.

  ‘One other thing,’ he said and Davie thought, there always is. ‘Does the name John Keen mean anything to you?’

  Davie shook his head. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A ghost,’ said Donovan and he looked as if he meant it. ‘Maybe a killer. The girl killed the other day up Springburn way, you hear about it?’

  Davie nodded. He’d read about it in the paper.

  ‘If you hear anything, I’d appreciate a call. This was a nasty one.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d hear something?’

  Donovan hesitated and Davie knew he was battling the impulse to say something he shouldn’t. ‘You never know. It’s a funny old world.’ Donovan turned back to his car, then stopped. ‘You watch your back, Davie. Things are different now. The world’s changed since you’ve been away.’

  ‘So I keep hearing,’ said Davie.

  * * *

  Davie climbed the stairs to the flat, suddenly weary. It had been a busy couple of days and he wasn’t used to this much activity. He’d have to pace himself, ease himself back into old ways. After all, as everyone kept telling him, the world had changed since he’d been away.

  The white envelope was stuck to his door with sticky tape. He unpeeled it, careful not to remove any paint, and ripped the envelope open. Inside was a series of five Polaroids, each showing the same room, the same scene from different angles. He felt something inside him lurch when he thought he recognised the room but then realised it was different – wallpaper wasn’t the same, furniture wasn’t the same, but similar. It was what the pictures depicted that was familiar. The overturned chair, the ironing board, the glow of the fire, the standard lamp on its side.

  And the woman’s body near the wall, behind the old kitchen table. Blood on the wall beside her. There was no shot of her face but Davie knew it would be nothing more than a bloody pulp.

  It was a recreation of his mother’s murder. Staged, photographed.

  But the woman’s body wasn’t staged. That was real, he knew it in his gut.

  He turned the envelope over in his hand but there was only one word hand-printed on the front:

  SOON

  Donovan had said it was a funny old world. It wasn’t funny, Davie decided, thinking about his mother, about Joe, Mouthy and all the other deaths, even Lomas. It was tragic and it was brutal.

  And something told Davie it was going to get worse.

  19

  DONALD HARRIS lay on the battered couch in the Crow’s Nest thinking about going out for a hit when he heard the knock at the door. He’d come back to the flat that morning to shoot up and had fallen asleep. When he woke he tidied up a bit, because even he could see the place was turning into a right tip, then he felt the familiar need build again. His body had used up every last drop of the score deal he’d jagged earlier and now it was beginning to crave more. His flesh began to creep on his bones and that familiar itch in his gut, the one he could never properly scratch, started up again. He still had some of the cash he’d got from that reporter burd, so at least he didn’t need to go out thieving to raise the necessary.

  He decided against answering the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The people who used the top floor flat all had keys, for the time being at least, until the council came along and boarded the place up. The last tenant had been a mate who’d moved out, headed over Edinburgh way, but she’d left Harris a key. He’d then cut a few more and dished them out to other pals, all for a nominal sum of course, because a bloke’s got to live. If the council ever got around to flattening the place he’d have to find somewhere new, but till then it did him just fine.

  The bang at the door became more insistent and he tried to ignore it, but the itch under his skin was growing all the time. He’d have to see who it was and get it dealt with, then he could get out. Otherwise he’d be having the screaming hab-dabs soon.

  At first he thought it was that bastard Davie McCall standing there but when he looked again he saw that it wasn’t. This guy was older, his hair greyer, his face more lined. But fuck me, it could be his dad, Harris thought.

  ‘Donald Harris?’ The guy said. Glasgow accent, friendly, didn’t give any kind of official vibe. Harris saw no harm in nodding.

  ‘Got a present for you,’ said the guy, pushing him hard into the hallway and as he staggered back against the wall Harris was dimly aware that the man was wearing rubber surgical gloves. He started to protest, but when the guy turned those cold blue eyes on him he thought better of it. The man locked the door behind him and pointed through to the living room. Harris obeyed, fully aware now of the damage he’d done himself. Time was he could have put up a fight. Time was he could’ve taken this bloke on, held his ground, did him damage. But no more. Now he was a shadow, a flimsy reflection, of what he used to be.

  He was told to sit down in the armchair, while his guest put his gloved hand in the pocket of his black jacket, producing a plastic bag filled with brown powder. Harris knew what it was, of course. He’d stuck enough of it in his veins. And even though he felt his blood quicken at the sight of it, he knew this was not going to be good for him. The man tossed the plastic bag into his lap.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he said.

  Harris picked the bag up and examined the contents. He licked his lips, the junkie within him crying out for it to be coursing through him. But the sensible part of him, the part he thought had died long ago, scream
ed at him not to touch it. He wasn’t so strung out that he didn’t recognise that this was no gift, this was his death warrant. He held the bag out to the man with shaking fingers. ‘I’m awright, thanks man.’

  The guy smiled. ‘No, you’re not, son. Look at you. You’re desperate for it. Every part of your body is begging for it. So take it. Go on. Fill your boots.’

  Harris shook his head, still holding the bag towards the man. ‘No, trying to give it up…’

  The smile dropped and the man lowered his head, his eyes burning icy holes into Harris’s own. ‘Take it.’ That’s all he said, and Harris knew then that he had little choice. Sure, he could make a break for the door, maybe even get out the living room, but he knew the guy would get him, drag him back, beat the shit out of him. Either way he was fucked.

  He drew his arm back and looked again at the brown powder. Maybe it was better this way, he thought. Go out on a high, so to speak. God knows he didn’t have much to live for, not since he’d first stuck a needle into his arm and felt the glorious rush. His wee mammy would have nothing to do with him, his brother neither. Walked past him in the streets, just like he’d told that girl reporter. Like he was nothing, which he supposed he was. His mates weren’t really mates at all, just junkies. He’d never be able to rely on them the way he used to rely on his gang mates. A junkie’s loyalty was always to the next fix. Friendship meant nothing, family meant nothing, honesty meant nothing, although for years before he’d started using, Harris had little more than a passing acquaintance with honesty.

  Once again he looked up at the guy, who was watching him with no expression. ‘Why you doing this?’ Harris asked.

  The man thought about the question. ‘Why not?’

  Harris frowned. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Harris shrugged, because it really didn’t matter anymore, and dropped his eyes to the bag. He slowly struggled to his feet and shuffled to the small table beneath the window where he’d left his works. As he heated the heroin in a blackened spoon, he glanced back and saw the blue-eyed man leaning against the wall by the fireplace, arms folded over his chest, watching. He looked bored.