by Tony Black
On Citadel Place I started to become dimly aware of footsteps behind me; heavy footsteps. I turned, looked back up the road I'd travelled but the footsteps stopped and in the darkness it was hard to trace more than the outline of car-roofs beneath the direct sheen of the street-lamps. I halted, wondered if I'd imagined the noise and returned to the path — but with a hurried gait. It'd managed a dozen or so steps when I heard the footfalls again, this time they were running. As I turned, I suddenly grasped for breath: I doubled over with a fist in my gut. I lunged, felt another fist in my kidney and then I fell to the ground in a hail of sharp, fast punches. The fists moved quickly, were joined by dark, heavy boots that connected soundly with my ribs and my stomach and my chest.
I felt blood rise in my mouth. I spat out a mouthful. Tried to make a sound but was unable. I was outnumbered and, I suspected, outclassed. The pair were not even drawing heavy breath when they halted.
I was rolled onto my back. I raised my hands to shield my face in a defensive movement.
'Get his arms.' The voice was loud, certain. It carried the authority of someone who was used to giving orders.
I managed a low blow, kicked out and caught the smaller of the two in the groin.
'The arms, get his arms behind his back,' came again.
I recognised the manoeuvre: they were preparing for a cuffing. Probably on instinct.
As my arms were locked the larger of the two assailants came into view, his face obscured by a balaclava. He grabbed my cheeks in his hand. I noticed the gold ring on his finger as he spoke. 'Right, Michie, you'll only get this warning once, so you better take it or the next step for you is off the brig.' He squeezed tighter. I could see the jagged tips of his grey teeth. 'Stay away from what doesn't concern you ...'
I found a line of ferocity. 'And what would that be?'
My arms were twisted tighter. 'Want me to panel him?' said the voice behind me.
The balaclava spoke again; he seemed to be smiling. 'Oh, you are that stupid, eh ... The Donald lassie isn't your concern, Michie. Stay away, stay well away.'
As he leaned back he raised his boot off the ground. His heavy sole was the last thing I saw before it connected with my forehead and the night went from darkness to blackness.
Chapter 17
The brightness of the hospital ward struck me like another assault. I opened my eyes only briefly, but long enough to take in the full glare of industrial lighting and white walls beyond white bed sheets. I scrunched my 'brows, tightened my eyelids. Nothing seemed to block out the glare. Then the pain kicked in. Shooting pain, around my eye-sockets and clean across the top of my head. I felt like a bandsaw was being operated on my skull. On instinct, I tried to lift a hand to my face; at once, I knew my arm was too heavy. I ventured another squint into the room to confirm my suspicions. I was right, my arm was in plaster.
I let out an elongated sigh. My head swam as I leaned back into the pile of pillows behind me; it was enough to alert the nurse.
'Mr Michie,' she said. 'I wouldn't be making too many drastic movements.'
I tried to speak; my mouth had dried out. The words failed me.
'Here, take a sip of water,' said the nurse. Her voice was harsh, fully Ayrshire. A west-coast battler in a white apron. If I was hoping for bedside manner, I was going to be disappointed.
'What the hell happened?' I said.
'I was hoping you could tell me.' I still had my eyes held tightly shut, but I could hear the scorn in her voice. There was a time when this sort of thing might have bothered me, but another line of Rabbie's had sunk in by now: let them cant about decorum. I knew she thought I was another rowdy — someone who settled his problems with his fists. As I felt the stookie on my arm I knew that wasn't going to be an option for some time.
'I mean, how did I get here?'
She started to fiddle with the chart on the end of the bed, shuffled a few papers on the clipboard as she answered me. 'A member of the public brought you in … well, called the ambulance to be more precise.' The clipboard rattled on the end of the bed. 'Look, don't be concerning yourself with that right now. You need to rest.'
I'd managed to adjust my eyes to the glare of the lights. I was still smarting but able to take her in. She had a face just how I imagined it: like a burst couch. 'You make that sound like an order, sister.' I put some sting in her title.
She placed her hands on her hips; they were broad hips. 'You better believe it. Sit tight, the doctor will be around to see you in a wee bit.' She strutted for the door.
When she was gone I raised myself in the bed, surveyed the damage that had been done from my thoroughly professional kicking. I felt bashed up inside: but it would take more than a bit of a street-mugging to put me off my stride. My main concern was the broken hand; that was personal. It was a reminder that the Devil found work for idle hands. That I was messing with the big boys.
I was holding up my plaster cast, trying to wriggle my bruised fingers when I spotted a broad figure blocking the doorway to the ward. It was Mason. I nodded towards him, and he started to make his way towards my bedside with his slow, slouching gait.
'Quite the picture, Doug,' he said. His expression held firm. His gaze looked guilty though; he couldn't meet my eyes.
I huffed. 'Is this an official police visit?'
He drew closer to the bed, unbuttoned his jacket and removed a chair. 'No, I heard you'd had an accident —'
'Accident. Are you joking? I was properly worked over and you know that.'
'Look, Doug …'
I raised my stookie. 'You see this? This is a personal message and I know who it's from, so don't be dancing round the houses with me, pal.'
The word pal seemed to unsettle him. 'I know. I know … I'm sorry.'
'If I thought you had anything to apologise for, Mason, you wouldn't be wearing a sorry expression … you'd be wearing your backside as a hat!'
He looked away. We both knew what the score was. There was no place for words here. We let the silence come between us, calm our nerves.
'I brought you something.' Mason reached into his coat.
'It better not be grapes.'
He placed a bottle of Talisker on the bedside table. I smiled. 'You better put that in the drawer. The sister runs a tight ship.'
He nodded, picked up the bottle and squirreled it away. 'How you feeling anyway?'
'Like I've been done in and had my hand broken.' Mason looked away, took in the sleeping patient in the next bed. I wondered if he was sussing out whether he could speak but the moment seemed to pass. I prompted, 'They were police, you know.'
'What?'
'Oh, come off it …'
'Doug, I didn't know anything about this. I swear it.'
I tried to scratch beneath my plaster cast; my hand had started to itch. 'One of them had a very interesting gold ring. I got a good look at it, close enough to see the wee square and compasses … they were from the Craft.'
Mason leaned back, raised palms. 'Now c'mon, doesn't mean they were polis!'
'One of them was for cuffing my arms behind my back … do you think I'm stupid, Mason?'
He looked to the left, leaned forward on his seat and lowered his voice. 'Well, I swear to you … if I'd known, Doug.'
He knew now. I replayed his warning to me in Belleisle: he didn't want to get involved. Was he scared? I doubted it. Mason was a rock. He took threats in the same way as me: like incitement. If he was wary it was because he had more information to tell me and he knew what I'd do with it. Mason liked to keep a low profile; he'd stayed home in Ayr, tried to play the game. But that didn't mean he liked the rules anymore than I did.
I went for broke. 'You've reached the end of the road, mate.'
His eyes widened. 'What do you mean?'
'How long have I known you?'
'Oh, Jesus, the old-pals act again, eh?'
'No. What I'm saying is, I know you. And I've never seen you this rattled.'
He lowered his head, shook
it from left to right as he stared at the floor tiles. 'It's all a mess.'
I reached out my broken hand, placed it on his shoulder. 'Well, let's clean it up.'
Chapter 18
I'd read about amputees who still felt fingers and limbs itch from time to time. As I stood with my injured hand raised to my eyes I longed for some relief from what felt like an ant infestation below the plaster cast. The itching had started the second I left the hospital and hadn't let up. I shook my head, tried to turn my thoughts towards other things. It was a trial, but I just about managed it as the bus pulled up and I stepped on. The road back to Ayr was wet, pot-hole scarred, and the bus full of disgruntled, weather-weary punters. The windows steamed as the moisture rose from coats and hats. I wiped a porthole in the condensation with the sleeve of my uninjured arm and stared out at the dreich Ayrshire fields.
'Cheer up, son. Och, you've never died a winter yet!' It was an old woman in a raincoat, wispy-white hair hung beneath a woollen beret she wore at too jaunty an angle. She looked like an escapee from The Muppets.
I smiled, tried not to encourage her. I knew the type; if I engaged her I'd be forced to endure yakking about the grandweans or the price of fish. I couldn't face it. I turned back to the window and my gloom. I was watching the litter blowing by as my mobile phone started to ring.
'Hello …'
'So, you're going ahead with this then?' It was Lyn.
'I don't see what choice I've got.'
Her voice climbed. 'You could follow the doctor's orders and stay in hospital.'
I didn't want to go through this again — I had fended off Lyn's insistence that I stay in the ward once already. 'We've been through this … I'm fine.'
'Doug, you have a broken hand and a head injury.'
I felt the bus hit another pot-hole. I jolted in my seat. 'Look, I have things to do. You know that.'
'It can wait.'
I felt my chest tighten, impatience biting. 'No, Lyn, it can't. Who's going to tackle this if I stay in hospital?'
'But …'
'No buts. That's what they want, Lyn … me in hiding. The whole idea was to scare me off. There's a plan in place for your son to take a fall and I don't see anyone else doing a thing about it.' When I stopped ranting I realised how harsh I must have sounded, 'I'm sorry. I don't mean to lecture you, but this is the way it has to be.'
Lyn spoke. 'I just don't want you to get hurt.'
I looked at my hand in plaster, shook my head. I knew it was too late for that. I also knew the next step was much worse than a broken hand. 'Don't you worry about me, Lyn.'
'But, I do.'
I felt a pulse in my temple start to accelerate, 'I have to go, Lyn. We'll speak soon.'
I heard her say goodbye and I hung up.
When I stepped off the bus I took a walk towards Burns Statue Square. The top of the town was faring so much better than the other end. The Ayrshire and Galloway seemed to be doing good trade but the old Hong Kong was gone, replaced by a trendier-looking joint. I remembered when it was The Statue Bar as well. On instinct I found myself looking over to see how The Hussar was these days. It was gone. The building boarded up. I felt a sadness at the passing into obscurity of another part of my youth; I'd had good times there, once. All watched over by the wry eye of Rabbie up on his plinth. My head started to fill with the myriad quotes I'd stored from Burns. So much of it had seeped into me, but at this moment only one gem stuck: a man's a man for aw that.
I crossed the road at Killoch Place and headed up the Square to the train station. Outside Wallace's I was stopped by a skanky-looking youth in joggies and a Rangers vest. It was freezing out and he shivered uncontrollably as he stuck his hand out. 'Got a pound-fifty for me, pal?'
I stopped dead in my tracks. 'You'd be better with a square meal, son.' His eyes glossed over. He went into a spiel about needing bus-fare to visit his sick daughter. He didn't look much older than a child himself. I made no reply, had heard it a million times before. But not in Ayr; the junkie-tide had obviously risen. I put the bead on him, and he staggered off to try another passer-by.
The black cabs were stretched all the way down to Kyle Street; I wondered how it was possible for so many of them to make a living in the Auld Toun. I stepped into the first on the rank and caught the driver eyeing my stookie with disdain. He obviously thought I was a rowdy, was worried I'd kick off in his cab. I tried a smile on him as I gave my destination: 'The port office.'
He tapped it into the TomTom and said, 'Oh, yeah, I know where that is.' His accent was London, prime Cockney. The SatNav made sense.
On the way down to the harbour my hand continued to itch as the driver treated me to a discourse on what was wrong with Tottenham Hotspur, peppering his chat with fond reminiscences of Ricky Villa and Steve Archibald. I tried not to look when he got teary-eyed about Glenn Hoddle. At the port offices I paid up and felt my stomach turn as I was given a 'Cheers, Gov.' I imagined the cabbie singing Chat, Chat, Rabbit, Rabbit on the way back to the Smith Street rank.
The wind battered the coast and blew up to the Port of Ayr's Arran Terminal. Two large hydraulic cranes tackled some recently unloaded scrap, the noise of metal on metal shrieking straight into my bones. I felt a shiver pass through me for what I was about to do. I had given the move very little thought, mainly for fear of resiling from my plan. Since my dead-of-night encounter with Ayrshire's finest, however, the stakes had risen. It was time to rattle some cages. If I ended up at the bottom of the water, weighed down with some of that hefty scrap metal, then that was the risk I was going to have to take.
I pulled the door towards me. The wind caught it and the rusty hinges sung. I saw a young girl sitting behind a white-to-grey counter. She raised her head as I wrestled the door closed with one hand and approached her.
My first instinct was to dispense with pleasantries, but manners got the better of me. 'Bit blowy out,' I said.
She didn't look used to seeing too many people lob up at her counter. 'Is there something I can help you with?' Her voice was cold.
I smiled. The show of teeth failed to thaw her. 'I'd like to see Mr Crawford, please.'
She tilted her head on her neck. 'Do you have an appointment with the Councillor?'
She obviously liked his official title; I didn't see what use it was here though. I put away my teeth. 'No. But I do have this.' I clanked my plaster cast down on the counter. In my fingers was a picture I'd printed of the councillor with Jonny Gilmour outside the Davis Snooker Club. 'I'm sure that'll be enough to get his interest, if you'd like to pass it along.'
Chapter 19
The receptionist was called Jennifer. I knew that because as she took my request for a meeting through to Councillor Crawford I was left staring at her name-tag on the counter. She'd also left the appointments diary, which I picked up and skimmed through. Most of the entries were uninteresting, names of reps and repair men. The odd delivery details. But as I trawled the entries I spotted a name which caused my eyes to widen.
'By the holly …'
It had been nothing more than suspicion up until now, but there it was in black and white. Kirsty Donald had made an appointment with the Port Authority the day before she died. I flicked further back in the diary and there she was again. Writ large. I felt my pulse quicken as I returned the diary to the counter and stepped back.
I was drawing deep breaths, trying to cool my jets as Jennifer appeared again. She had left holding my photograph of the Councillor and Jonny Gilmour, but her hands were now empty.
'Councillor Crawford would like to see you in his office, Mr Michie …' she took two steps to the front, turned briskly towards another door and opened it up. 'This way, please.'
The door led to a thinly carpeted hallway. Grey industrial-looking walls skirted the well-worn floor. I saw a door towards the end of the walkway and figured now was going to be my only chance to approach Jennifer with a query.
'You must have an idea why I'm here,' I said.
Sh
e turned; her mouth drooped for a moment. 'I'm sorry?'
'I'm investigating the death of Kirsty Donald. You knew her didn't you?'
Jennifer's heavy eyelids fluttered in double-quick time. She was rattled. I knew she had been warned off right away. 'I'm just a receptionist …'
'I know she came here the day before she died, Jennifer.'
The girl looked away. We'd reached the door to Crawford's office. She leaned towards me, dropped her voice. 'Look, I only work here … I don't know anything.'
I watched the young girl reach out for the door handle. As she gripped it I could see her eyes moistening. 'Think about what you're saying, Jennifer … we're dealing with murder here. You do realise that.'
Her cheeks suddenly flushed, she pushed the door open and stepped away.
Councillor Crawford was sitting behind his desk, staring at a computer screen. He affected to be engrossed in little rows and columns of numbers for a moment and then removed his thick glasses and rose to greet me.
'Ah, Mr Michie …' He turned to the receptionist. 'Thank you Jennifer, that will be all.'
On the desk between us sat the picture I'd used as my calling card. I could see the face of Jonny Gilmour clearly. The Councillor was just as easily identifiable in the glare of the lights from the Davis Snooker Club. I walked over and tapped my plaster cast down on the desk. The photograph jumped.
'You seem to have attained a nasty injury, Mr Michie.'
I smiled. 'Very nasty. In fact I'd say the way I attained this injury couldn't have been nastier.'
'Oh …'
I positioned myself on the edge of his desk, just high enough to peer down my nose at him. I liked the vantage point it afforded me. 'We won't go into that now, Councillor … I'm here to talk about more pressing matters.' I picked up the photograph. 'Like your friendship with Jonny Gilmour.'
He leaned back in his seat. 'I don't see what that has to do with you.'
'I'm investigating the murder of Kirsty Donald, but I'm sure you're well aware of that by now.'
