by Tony Black
On the way out to Alloway the traffic slowed along the Maybole Road as workers dug up a new stretch. It would be gas mains, or new cables of some description going in. The road's tarred surface was a battle-scarred mess of riven mounds and deep cleaves. An old man with a Westie dog stood shaking his head by the temporary traffic lights. His hair was as white as the dog's, probably too white for his age, but I envied him his years on behalf of my mother.
As the lights changed I planted the foot and turned onto Laughlanglen Road. The long dipping sweep of the thoroughfare took in a children's play area with slides and swings on one side and the grassy hills of Rozelle Park on the other. I remembered as a child watching a man in a Porsche pull up and commence batting golf balls into the park as the children ran to collect them up. It seemed like a million years ago. Pre-time. But it happened. I knew it happened because I held the memory in my mind. I wondered what thoughts and memories that my mother had once held had now died with her?
At the family home my sister's car was in the driveway. It was only a small Fiesta but she had managed to take up the entire two-car capacity. I flicked on the blinkers and parked with two wheels hanging over the kerb. Claire appeared at the door with her bags as I emerged from the Audi.
'Hello, Doug.'
I nodded. 'Nippy, isn't it?'
Claire's eyes widened momentarily and then she put down her bags. 'Will I make you a coffee?'
I stepped forward. We were trapped in our own unease. 'No, you get away. Get back to your kids … it's a fair drive you have.'
She shook her head. 'I can hang on a wee bit. For a coffee.' She seemed to doubt her words; her lashes batted quickly. 'I mean, I'll be back to help with the … arrangements. Obviously.'
'Claire, it's fine … honestly.'
She sighed, loudly. I reached out a hand and rubbed at her shoulder. 'Maybe a wee coffee before you get up the road then, eh?'
She nodded and we went inside.
The house had that familiar musty smell that I'd grown used to of late. It was a combination of the lack of dusting and airing teamed with general neglect. As I looked around I waited for Ben to appear, to come lolling from side to side, bumping his way along the walls in his blindness.
'Where's the dog?' I said.
'Out the back.' Claire began to fill the kettle. 'I did wonder what to do with him.'
'He's fine with me.'
'Are you sure? It's a lot of responsibility and he's getting on.' She looked like she wished she could snatch back her words.
'He's fine with me. Look, one of us needs to get the house in order and …'
'I will help you, Doug.'
I removed one of the stools from beneath the breakfast bar and sat down. 'You can leave the funeral arrangements to me.'
She clunked two cups on the work surface. 'I think she had a policy … y'know, insurance. Dad had one of them.'
I nodded. 'I'll look it out. Don't worry about it.'
The kettle started to whistle. Claire leaned against the sink. I noticed her fingernails gripping the stainless-steel edge. 'Doug, you don't think she held anything against us, do you?'
How did I answer that? I knew she held everything against everyone. It's what she had become. The world didn't suit her anymore. 'No, Claire, I'm sure she didn't.'
My sister started to pick at the sink's edge. 'She had so much anger, I couldn't handle it. The lashing out, it really hurt me. She missed the kids' birthdays year after year and I resented her. I felt bad for that, but …'
I got off the stool, walked towards my sister and took her in my arms. 'Claire, we all felt resentment. It's hard. We lost her a long time ago.'
She started to whimper; she dipped her head and sobbed onto my chest. I held onto her but I didn't know what to say or do. 'But we've lost her twice, Doug … we lost her then, when she changed, and we've lost her again now.'
I longed for the right thing to say, to make things right for Claire but there was no way of patching over this. Everything she said was true. 'I know, I know.' It was all I could say.
Chapter 26
It was a beautiful Ayrshire morning: blue skies and birdsong. I stuck my head out the front door to see if I was mistaken, but no, there was no hint of rain in the air. All was quiet. All was still. At least, outside. I was being eaten up inside about my reaction to the death of my mother. I wanted to feel more, but I couldn't help but see her death as a blessing. The way she had been living was no life at all.
I made coffee, replaced the crispness of the morning air with the harsher tang of Nescafe instant. I toyed with the idea of breakfast, some eggs maybe. Toast perhaps. The stookie on my arm would make anything more complicated a trial. In the end I decided that my stomach wasn't up to it and stayed with the coffee. Ben was anxious to get out, to stretch his old legs and relieve his no-doubt aching bladder. I ruffled his ears in consolation for a moment but then the whimpering started.
'Okay, boy … you win.'
My coat still carried a hint of the heady antiseptic smell it had picked up in the hospital the day before. I winced a little on first contact but flung it on. The old dog managed to claw at his lead as I attached it to his collar. We set out for the slim strip of woods that skirted the edge of Pemberton Valley.
The ground carried a slight dusting of frost that covered footprints and puddles with a layer of glassy ice. I crunched a few underfoot as the dog shuffled along, sniffing and rasping as the lead strained. It was good to be out; walking always cleared the mind. At least, let you think that for a short time. I knew my darker thoughts were waiting to attack me back at my mother's house.
As the trees started to thin out and The Loaning came into view, I felt myself returning to civilization; the serried ranks of bungalows and detached villas appeared all too soon. At the bus shelter I toyed with the idea of going deeper into the woods but I could see by the heavy breath bursting from Ben that he'd had enough. We returned to our slow pace on the pavement, the sound of the dog's claws scraping on the frosty flags.
We'd managed only a short distance when I started to hear a car crawling behind us. I turned, caught sight of a white Nissan Almera. It had been pimped up, the suspension lowered and a ridiculous spoiler stuck on the back. Behind the wheel was a young lad in his early twenties. He had a short, all-over crop and broad shoulders. He was glowering at me, thinned eyes beneath Neanderthal 'brows. The sight of him set my pulse quickening. The sight of his friend in the seat beside him, unravelling what looked like a machete from a Tesco carrier was the real shock though.
I halted in my tracks. Stood still on the road and put the bead on them. There was some grit about the pair, but I knew the type. They were on wages. Any trouble they had with me wasn't their own. I could use that to my advantage.
I tied the dog to a gatepost at the foot of one of the facsimile driveways and returned to my stance on the pavement, directing my glare into the car's windscreen. The pair kept eyes on me but didn't flinch. As I sized them up, guessed their age and what possible experience they might have, I found them lacking. I chanced my luck.
As I walked towards the Almera I stared to remove my wristwatch. I made a show of depositing the item in my pocket and then I undid the top button of my coat and inserted my hand. All the while I kept my eyes on the pair of mugs. They thought I was carrying; holding a weapon that was at least the match of theirs. It was a move I knew you could only get away with when the targets were wet behind the ears.
I was chancing my luck.
But it worked.
The driver spun wheels and took off up The Loaning, racing through the gears. I watched them go and caught sight of the one nearest me drawing the machete across his throat in a blatant threat. I smiled, pretended to be unfazed, like this sort of thing was meat and drink to me.
I watched the car disappear into the distance, reach the point where the road met the school and turn sharply towards the by-pass. I was perplexed, but I knew I shouldn't be surprised by this sudden escalation of
events. Gilmour had warned me. The cops in balaclavas had warned me. And Crawford had warned me. Something about chickens coming home to roost rung true.
I turned for home, unhooked the dog's lead and adopted a slow stroll that belied my churning insides. By the time we reached the door to my mother's home, I'd been through a list of possibilities. I watched as Ben lapped at his water bowl and then I hunted down my mobile phone. I had to make a call urgently.
I brought up my contacts and located the number I was looking for.
Ringing.
'Come on, Lyn … pick up!'
She answered on the fourth ring. 'Doug?'
'Yeah, how are you?'
She huffed. 'Just peachy. How do you think?'
Immediately I saw the stupidity of my opener. I needed to tread carefully. She was likely to be as agitated as me by recent events. And to add to her woes, she had a son in custody to think of.
'I have some news for you …'
'You do?' her voice was high, hopeful.
'It's not good news … My mother passed away.'
'Oh, Doug …' She changed her tone, seemed stronger somehow. I had shaken her from self-absorption.
'It was very sudden.'
'I'm so sorry. If there's anything I can do.'
I moved the phone to my other hand. 'There is something.'
'Name it …'
'Well, you might not like it, but I think it would be for the best in the circumstances.'
A gap opened on the line, stretched over a few seconds, then, 'I'm not with you.'
'I need you to leave town.'
'What?'
I knew this was the reaction I could expect. 'Do you have a friend or family that you can go and stay with for a few days?'
'Well, there's my sister on Arran … but I don't understand.'
I felt my back muscles stiffen. I was tensing. I knew how serious matters had got and I was worried for Lyn's safety; but I couldn't panic her. I needed to shield her from the worst of what was to come. She had been through enough. 'I think, to be on the safe side, I'd just like you to be somewhere else. For a little while, anyway.'
'But it doesn't make sense, I've been with you from the start and you know how I feel about—'
'Lyn, you need to leave town. It won't be forever, but I need to ask you to do this … now.'
Chapter 27
I wouldn't exactly call it fear but there was certainly a new level of caution infecting my every move. I'd seen some things in Ulster, seen how the border towns dealt with threats, how the police stations had to be kitted out with a portcullis, barricades and barrels of razor wire to keep grudges at bay. I wasn't about to go that far, but I wasn't waiting for the next mug with a machete to come knocking either.
In Ayr there had always been types who would do things you couldn't dream up in your worst nightmares for a few quid. I'd known hard men who fancied their chances taken down by chib-carrying gangs of yobs — the rent-a-mob, bribed with Staffie pups or bags of grass. A tin of Cally Special could pay for a glassing in some pubs. It was the low end of the market and ultimately the most unpredictable. I had too much going on, was too close to the truth of Kirsty Donald's murder, to be on guard round the clock, but I knew what to do about it.
I took a drive out to Tam's Brig, parked up and walked back the way I'd come, past Virginia Gardens. I liked the Tam's Brig area. It had a schizophrenic feel; being wedged between Ayr and Prestwick it never quite knew whether to be on the way up, or the way down. I knew what I wanted it to be though, as I set out towards the shady bedsits that studded the fag-end of the Auld Toun.
I took a wee lane, a wynd off the corner where the old chippie used to sit. I could see the Davis Snooker Club from where I was standing and it drew to mind the night I'd spotted Gilmour and Crawford leaving there. I shook my head, muttered, 'Upped the ante, eh lads?'
They certainly had, but they didn't know who or what they were dealing with. I'd brought down bigger, and bolder. Far bolder. True, I had better back up then, but I shoved that to the farthest reaches of my mind. There was no place for doubts where I was going.
As I knocked on the door some flakes of dry white paint fluttered to the ground. I heard movement, chair legs dragging, and then a tobacco-stained net-curtain was yanked back from the window. I watched Broonie clock me, take in that I was not a threat and then move towards the door.
He opened up, but kept the chain on. He checked out the stookie on my arm. 'What the hell do you want?'
I kept my voice low, but definite. 'A shooter.'
'Jesus!' He slammed the door. The chain rattled and then the wood was jerked back again. Broonie grabbed me, pulled me inside. 'What are you playing at?'
I looked him up and down. He was wearing an ancient Frankie Says T-shirt and chewing-gum coloured Y-fronts; the backside was falling out of them. 'Come on, don't mess me about. Are you holding or not? If you're not, I want to know who is.' I reached inside my jacket, removed a bundle of notes I'd tied tightly with an elastic band. 'I'm paying cash for a quick sale. Today, Broonie.'
The bedsit was tiny, beyond cramped. I checked out the pile of dishes sitting in the far corner. A boxy television, so old it had a wood-veneer, fizzed beside it. The place stank of puff and fortified wine that clung to the air making for a sticky, heady miasma.
Broonie picked at his elbow and shivered. 'What you on about, man … I don't hold shooters.'
I looked down at his bare feet. I was tempted to stamp on his toes, hard, just to remind him who he was talking to. That kind of thing once came as second nature to me but the older I got I found using my mind, and words, was a little more effective.
'I'm not polis anymore … you know that?'
'Aye, I heard … heard quite a bit about you lately.' Broonie backed up, started to move upended Buckfast bottles from the coffee table as he hunted for a fag. I watched his search prove fruitless then I removed my pack, sparked him up. He took the cig and tucked his free hand under his armpit. 'Okay, now just suppose I did know somebody with a shooter, and I'm only saying, suppose … what's in it for me?'
I had his number; started to peel off a crisp twenty from the roll, said, 'Well, I'd obviously be grateful.'
Broonie watched my hands, the sound of the notes — crisp and new — attracted his full attention. He lunged forward and took the bait.
'Wait here.' He pointed at me with the cig, moved towards a manky curtain that separated his living quarters from his sleeping area. I heard him rummaging about, then speaking into a phone briefly before returning in a jollier mood. In his hand was a small ASDA carrier, weighted down with something.
'Right, let's see the colour of yer money, Michie.'
I shook my head. 'I don't think that's the way it works, mate.'
A twitch in his eyebrow started to spread to the rest of his forehead. 'Right. Right … 'sake, man.' He delved into the carrier, removed a small newspaper-covered package and handed it to me. I took the package — a fair weight — and unwrapped the newspaper. Inside was a dirty oil-cloth; beneath that, a gun that looked like a museum piece.
'What's this?' I said.
'Five hundred.'
I laughed. 'If I take it on the Antiques Roadshow maybe.'
Broonie pinched his nose. 'That's Army-issue … a Webley.'
I shook my head. I opened the chamber; it was empty.
Broonie spoke, 'Do you slugs for a pound a throw.'
I handed it back. 'I'll give you a ton and you can chuck in the ammo.'
'Two-fifty.'
'A ton-fifty.'
'Done.'
Felt like I had been.
I tucked the loaded weapon in my waistband and headed back to the car. I was in dangerous proximity to the John Street nick. Carrying a concealed weapon was a serious offence but I figured that if the local constabulary caught me with a shooter, I wouldn't be going to trial. It would be me or them.
In the car I removed the Webley and placed it inside the glove box. I turned over the i
gnition and found first gear. The car purred to life as I accelerated and headed back to the shore front. I had my next move mapped out. It involved a visit to the Port of Ayr, to another meet with Councillor Crawford. I knew he would put up fierce opposition to what I had to say, but I'd come prepared for that. This time I'd get the answers I wanted. Or else.
Chapter 28
Day was tipping into night. The dark waters lapping the port's edge reflected the street lamps; little iridescent pinpricks in a wriggling, slithering shoreline. I sat in the car and watched the colours — from heliotrope to hazy blackness — moving in hypnotic patches. I felt calmed, at ease. I was comfortable, but I knew I had no right to be. I was here for a reason and sitting in my car was merely prolonging the inevitable.
I closed my eyes, laid my head on the rim of the steering wheel. There were thoughts swirling about in my mind but not the ones I wanted. I wanted to find the words to bring Crawford down; to rattle him, have him calling for mercy. But I wasn't there yet. If this was a poker game I'd be holding jack; jack-high if I was lucky.
I tried to line up what I'd learned: the Port had seen some dodgy goings on; Crawford was being protected by the Craft; he had a connection to Gilmour; and there was my gut instinct that the lot of them where in cahoots for profit.
I'd seen the press reports with the endless busts at the port. The longstanding problem with smuggling there was so prevalent it was next-door to impossible to get my own brand of smokes in the Auld Toun. But what did I have on them? Nothing but suspicions. They knew I was onto them, but somehow, I wondered if I really worried them. There were the threats, the beating and the broken hand but that was small-time to them. A girl had been murdered: that's what they were really capable of.
I let out a sigh.
'Jesus, Doug, think, man …' I was talking to myself. Who was rattled: them or me? I knew the answer and it scared the daylights out of me.
