by Tony Black
The Cameo is said to be Quentin Tarantino’s favourite picture house in the world. I would have thought Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood might have the edge, but what do I know? That’s the thing about your home city: you lose sight of its charms. It takes the tourists, the visitors, to point them out to you sometimes. I know one thing for sure — we lose the Cameo, this place would be poorer for it. We’ve lost too much of the old stuff already.
I ordered up a ticket to the matinee: 3:10 to Yuma. Was a remake starring Russell Crowe. Christ, have they made an original film in the last ten years? Still, wasn’t intending to watch the thing anyway. Would serve my purposes.
I got myself settled in the very last row. End seat, nearest the door.
Watched as plod came in. There was some confusion.
Heard, ‘Shit.’
Some tutting.
They opted for the same row as me. Other side of the cinema. What choice did they have? Sit in front of me? Unlikely.
The dodgy cinema ads were mercifully short. Must save the long-play ones for the later shows. Trailers for a few soon-to-be-released films, then we were into Crowe strutting his stuff. Carrying a few more pounds, I thought. His co-star was Christian Bale. Obviously going for the Antipodean crew; probably shot in the outback too. Was looking to be not too bad a flick, quite getting into it when I remembered why I was there.
My first move was to loosen my belt.
Had the entire length wrapped round my hand when I stood up, stretched. Saw plod get jumpy at my side. Shifted uneasily in their seats. I was about, say thirty or forty yards from them. Maybe another twenty to the doors. Figured that gave me a bit of time to get a start on them.
I sat back down.
Fired off a quick text to Hod. It read: You set?
He replied: In place. Outside Cameo.
In a second, I vaulted the back of the chair, made for the doors. As I ran, I unfurled my belt, caught the buckle in my hand.
On the other side of the doors, I fed the belt through the handles, drew it together, fastened it on the last notch. It held tight.
I was off, chanking it for the street.
I could hear the thumping on the cinema doors as I got to the foyer.
Outside, I flashed my eyes left, right.
A blast of horn. Hod’s tyres screeched.
I jumped towards the road.
The car just about mounted the pavement, then, ‘Get in!’
I wasn’t about to argue.
Chapter 39
Hod burned rubber down Lothian Road, spun at the lights and snaked round the castle. Pedestrians flagged us to go slow. I thought they had a point.
‘Hod, there’s no benefit dumping plod to get done for sixty in a thirty zone.’
He settled. ‘Right, where we going?’
‘What do you mean we?’
He lifted hands off the wheel, slapped them back down. Gripped tight. ‘Gus, c’mon, we’re a team, right?’
‘Uh-uh, buddy. Teams I don’t do.’
‘But I thought-’
‘Hod, whoa-whoa!.. Let me do the thinking, eh?’
He drove on, occasional scratch at his thickening beard, and soon we were on South Clerk Street, heading for North Bridge. At Hunter Square there used to be a heavy-duty drinking school. Had attracted protests from the retailers. The police had promised a clean-up. At the high point, upwards of fifty jakeys were seen in the square at any one time, pished up and ready to rumble. Not a pretty sight. Not good for the tourists. And that would never do.
I said, ‘Where’s the jakey brigade?’
‘On the square? Gone.’
Last I looked, they were still in full attendance, said, ‘How did they manage that?’
‘Simple, really.’
He was playing coy. I said, ‘Nothing in this city is simple. C’mon, spill it.’
‘Well, y’know they tried just about everything — locking them up, arrests, bans, warrants… even a twenty-four-hour police presence, just about.’
‘Yeah, and none of it worked.’
‘Until some bright spark had a brainwave.’
‘Which was?’
‘Why don’t we start pouring their drink away in front of them?’
I looked out at the square: not a jakey in sight. ‘Worked like a charm, Hod.’
‘Well, you think about it — what’s the one thing that’s gonna put the frighteners on a jakey?’
I got the point.
‘By the way, you didn’t-’
‘Glovebox.’
I opened the panel in front of me. A half-bottle of Grouse stared back. Said, ‘Thanks, Hod.’ Added, ‘Yer all right, yer all wrong.’ Real Scottish wisdom; defies explanation.
We crossed the bridge. Hod took the lights, headed round to George Street. Place was heaving — lot of French Connection bags, some Prada. Hard Rock Cafe doing a bustling trade; doorman putting up the stanchions with the red ropes already. Man, it was boom time in Edinburgh.
‘So where to?’ asked Hod. A set of shades and he could have been Teen Wolf.
‘From the sublime to the ridiculous.’
‘Come again?’
‘Sighthill.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
I turned, pointed to my chops. ‘Does this face lie?’
He drove on.
I changed the station on the radio, got some shock jock ranting about Polish plumbers. Apparently there were two busloads of Poles turning up in St Andrew Square every week. The homeless hostels all had to have a full-time Polish speaker on every shift now. Not all Edinburgh’s streets were paved with gold.
‘Bring ’em on, bring ’em on…’ went the shock jock. ‘My brother’s a plumber, and he’s never had it so good, cleaning up after the mess these unlicensed, unregulated, untrained, unreal Polish plumbers are making in our homes…’
Hod laughed. ‘It’s true… they’re all shite!’
Couldn’t all be bad, said, ‘Well, why do they hire them?’
‘Same old, same old… they’re cheap!’
Made sense, of a sort.
I flicked. Found Thin Lizzy doing ‘Jailbreak’. Would do for me.
I changed tack, ‘So, dog fights… what’s the rundown?’
‘I have a pick-up.’
‘You what?’
‘A point of contact — we go there on the night, we get given the location and follow on.’
‘Right, like a convoy.’
Hod raised a thumb, made to pull an imaginary truck horn. ‘Bang on.’
‘Bit organised for yobbos.’
‘Gus, none of these boys are lightweights. Your little schemie skanks are likely up to their nuts in some dirty business. Whoever’s stamping their meal ticket ain’t gonna be a pushover. The whole pit-fight scene is serious, serious hardcore shit.’
I got the picture. I saw it had changed a little, but only a little. The fact remained: I wasn’t getting answers from the young crew without some persuasion.
Took out my mobile. ‘Turn down the radio, Hod.’
‘Who you calling?’
‘A contact.’
I dialled Fitz’s number. Got right to the point: ‘Fitz, it’s Gus.’
‘Dury, by the holy, that was some stint ye-’
‘Fitz, later, later… I need to know about that stuff I asked you about the Corrado.’
‘Dury, ’tis not news ye’ll like.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, hold on…’ I heard rustling; he moved some papers on his desk, opened a drawer, closed it again. ‘Right, here we are.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Well, there’s twenty, no, twenty-plus, in the immediate vicinity.’
‘You shit me?’
‘Popular car.’
‘Fucking hell. They’ve stopped making them — how popular can it be?’
‘Ah, now, ’tis what ye might call popular with a certain section of the community.’
‘Fucking boy racers.’
‘Y
e wouldn’t be far wide of the mark there, Dury.’
I rested my head on my hand. I didn’t have the time to check twenty addresses for these little pricks. ‘Fitz, any listed in Sighthill, or Wester Hailes?’
I heard pages turning, then, ‘Not a one.’
‘Tell me you jest.’
‘Would I ever?’
I didn’t answer.
On a hunch I wondered if Mark Crawford was connected, said, ‘What about Ann Street?’
‘You kidding? Fuck no, there’s none in Ann Street.’ He changed tone, seemed almost smug. ‘By the way, I hear that was a fine performance ye pulled off earlier.’
‘Which one?’
‘Would be the whole thing.’ A laugh. ‘Haven’t ye McAvoy running about with a face like a Halloween cake!’
‘That would be bad, right?’
Laughter. Uproarious. ‘Oh, feck yes, Dury… Did ye ever, when ye were a chiseller, catch a wasp in a bottle? Well, isn’t that the spit of his like this afternoon, man. I’d say ye had him rattled! Rattled indeed, no mistake.’
I thanked Fitz for the 3D image, even though it was well and truly the last thing I wanted to hear right now.
‘Well, Dury, I will tell ye this: McAvoy is no man to cross…’
‘You said that already.’
‘From what I’m hearing about him now, I didn’t know the half of it.’
‘Go on.’
‘No danger… not on the line. We’ll talk soon.’
He hung up.
We were pulling off the last road from civilisation, into the badlands.
‘Where to?’ asked Hod.
I pointed to a shop. Outside there was a girl, must have been no more than fifteen. She wore a bright pink boob tube and a black leather mini. Her face was aflame with acne, still visible through layer upon layer of slap.
‘You sure?’
‘Oh, yeah. You better take off too.’
‘You what?’
‘I mean it, fuck off home. I want peace from you. Prepare yourself for the pit fight. Conserve your energy.’
He shook his head. ‘Right, okay.’
Hod revved the engine, clocked the girl walking over.
I joked, ‘Your luck’s in, you might have company.’
He wound down the window, hollered, ‘Fuck off, you! Now. Back the way you came.’
The girl raised a single digit, fired it at Hod.
I had to smile as I saw him furiously wind up the window, mutter, ‘Dirty hoor.’
Chapter 40
I rocked up to the shop. Well, it sold stuff; similarities to any other shop I knew ended there. The outside was secured with hardboard and tin sheets. Above the door, razor wire. Inside you’d have to go back in time to Stalinist Russia to get the full flavour. The joint averaged three items to a shelf. Behind a barred-up counter, an old Sikh eyed me with suspicion. I don’t believe he thought I was a shoplifter, more like lost.
‘How goes it?’
No reply.
‘Wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a few lads, one with a flashy motor, a Corrado.’
Still no reply.
‘Do you speak English?’
A sigh, nod.
‘Great, we’re making progress.’ I heard someone scuttle in through the door behind me. ‘Like I say, I’m after these boys… You see, I need them to help me out with a bit of a problem.’
A young girl shoved a bag of dog biscuits under the bars, asked for twenty Berkeley. The Sikh put the lot in a bag, sorted out some change. Never opened his mouth.
The girl stared straight at me. She had a split lip and the biggest eyebrow piercing I’d ever seen. Under her arm was a white poodle, struggling for dear life.
‘Can I help you, love?’ I said.
She spazzed her mouth at me, said, ‘You’re fuckin’ radge.’
‘Yeah, and nice to meet you too.’ I turned to the Sikh. ‘This car, have you seen it?’ I was losing the rag now, slipping quickly beyond frustration. ‘It’s white and it has these really unusual wheels, they’re gold mags, y’know, like alloys.’
The girl slammed the door and the Sikh turned away from me. Went to sit in the corner of his little cage, topped a Mr Men mug up with Grant’s.
I leaned over, yelled, ‘Thank you, much appreciated.’ I didn’t envy the guy his job, or, by the kip of him, his life. I knew Sikhs were supposed to stay on the dry bus, but I suppose out here that was just too tall an order. I turned, gave him a wave, and headed for the door.
The first thing to hit me on the outside was the revving of a seriously high-powered engine. The next was the girl from the shop jumping into a Corrado and throwing the poodle on the back seat. After that something like a baseball bat took the legs off me and I fell to the ground, copping kicks and punches at all angles.
‘Can you hear me, Mr Dury?’
I heard the voice, but didn’t recognise it. I opened my eyes and latched on to an indistinct set of features, some burst blood vessels on the nose, heavy bags under the eyes.
‘Mr Dury, are you with us?’
The paramedic sat me up. Someone else put a red blanket around my shoulders. My head throbbed; I saw some blood on the pavement.
‘Quite a doing you got… You’re lucky Mr Singh stepped in.’
I looked over the paramedic’s shoulder. The old Sikh was returning to his shop. ‘Him?’
‘Oh aye — saw them off, then called us.’ He reached in his bag, took out a vial. ‘Now, tip your head back. This might sting a bit.’
‘Ahh, Jesus Christ.’ I jumped back, rocked the ambulance on its wheels.
‘I told you it would hurt.’ A wipe with cotton wool, some gauze attached to my head. ‘That’s going to need stitching. Come on, let’s get you in the back of the vehicle.’
‘Eh, no, I’ll be fine.’
‘You will not, you’re bleeding from a head wound and you’ll need a scan as well as those stitches.’
‘Trust me, I’m fine.’
I stood up, felt a bit woozy. Immediately slid back down the side of the ambulance.
‘Mr Dury, you’re in no condition to-’
‘Where did you get my name from?’
The paramedic handed me my wallet, said, ‘I’d be more careful around here, you know.’
‘Careful’s my middle name. Look, thanks for the patch-up, but I’m fine, really.’
He knelt down, prised open my eyelids and switched on a little torch, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Two… just like Churchill.’
A frown, unimpressed. ‘The cut needs stitched, there’s no way round that. You leave it, you’ll have a nasty scar.’
‘Nasty I can live with. Just patch me up and let me get out your way. I’m sure you’ve more deserving cases to get to.’
He shook his head, reached in his bag again. ‘This is only a butterfly clip. It’ll close the wound, but like I say, it’ll scar.’
‘Go for it.’
The procedure didn’t take too long. Finished up with a bandage around my head.
Paramedic asked, ‘Can you stand?’
‘Yeah, no trouble.’
‘Then we’ll take you home.’
My legs felt rubber, but I got moving, said, ‘Just a minute — want to say thanks to the shopkeeper.’
A hand on my arm. ‘Mr Dury, send him a card. You’re going home, or to hospital.’
The road back to Hod’s boat seemed bumpy, but the codeine tabs took the edge off. Was feeling pretty raw after my second doing-over in the last twenty-four hours. Wondered if I would last the next. I knew Mac and Hod would have some sage advice for me too; just couldn’t wait to hear it.
Despite evidence to the contrary, I thought I’d had a lucky escape. Another five minutes under the cosh and I’d be taking my meals through a straw for the foreseeable. Then again, given my current diet, maybe I could manage that.
‘Is this the place?’ yelled the driver.
‘Yeah, right out front’s fine.’<
br />
The wheels came to a halt and then the back door slid open.
‘Careful now. You don’t want to be doing too much,’ said the paramedic.
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Well, let’s get you inside.’
‘Look, would you stop fussing? I can take it from here.’
Had the ‘some people’ stare sent my way. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for the help, I just hate fussing. I thanked the paramedic again, went inside.
The boat seemed empty until Usual shot out from under the bunk. I’d grown used to him jumping up and down every time I walked through the door but he was going ballistic with excitement. I could have done with more pain relief but had to settle for a bottle of 100 Pipers.
I lay in the bunk slipping in and out of sleep. The usual dreams — or should that be nightmares — came. Moosey’s corpse appeared, then Debs on our wedding day.
I rose. My head hurt worse than any hangover but as I started to think about what Jonny had said outside the nick regarding Debs, my heart hurt even more.
Chapter 41
Was I dreaming? I didn’t think so; this had happened, surely. Were I asleep, it would be a nightmare…
Debs takes down the pictures of the little yellow hippos. She packs away the cuddly Barney toy, the Elmo from Sesame Street and the two-foot-long Doggie Daddy.
I don’t like to watch.
I don’t know what to say.
She seems so composed. There’s an ‘at work’ look about her. I feel it’s wrong. There should be some emotion, surely. But what do I know? I’m a man. This is women’s business.
There’re two boxes on the floor, one pink, one blue. ‘We’ll get one of each,’ she told me only a week ago in another of our jaunts to John Lewis. ‘You never know!’
Now she uses them to pack all this stuff away. She takes down the little blue dresses, the hand-knitted cardigans we seemed to get so many of. The news was such a joy to everyone.
