by Tony Black
‘Down them stairs,’ he shouts at me.
In the living room there’s scarcely a stick of furniture or picture on the walls that isn’t disturbed. Then I see the cause of the ruckus flash before me like a ghost.
My father’s earned another gift from one of the men in the Steamboat pub. He’s always being given things, says it’s a great advertisement to have the mighty Cannis Dury as a fan of your tyres or your shoes or your bacon.
This time the gift is a lively young lamb. It’s come home with a rope round its neck, but is none too happy to see it tightened.
‘Grab it up, boy,’ yells my father. There’s no need. It jumps into my arms the moment it sees me.
The rope is wrapped round its little snout. When I loosen it, the lamb grabs for breath.
Cannis is rolling drunk, knocking a lampshade about face. ‘Good — now follow me, we have a job of work to be done.’
I follow him to the kitchen. He steadies himself over the sink, reaches for his razor strop. The sight of the strop being taken makes my heart gallop. But not for myself, I’ve felt its lashes too many times, I’m wondering what my father plans for the lamb.
The little creature seems to sense it too. It squirms in my arms.
‘Hold that bastard steady,’ roars my father.
‘What’ll you do? What’ll you do to it?’ I say.
‘I’ll cut its throat, what d’ye think?’ He grabs the lamb and hangs it over the sink by its back legs. It struggles and squeals. My father has to use both hands to keep from losing it again. All the while the lamb looks at me. Great black eyes, staring.
‘Angus, boy, get my razor, you’ll have to do it!’
‘No.’ I say. I don’t believe I’ve uttered the word.
‘What do you mean, no? You will do it. The razor now, cut this bastard’s throat before it has me on my back.’
I look at the lamb, upturned and struggling in my father’s great hands. Its black eyes plead again. He takes down the razor, hands it to me, and then there’s an almighty struggle as though the lamb knows it’s on its own. The squeals are the sound of terror. I feel them reaching into me.
‘Cut its throat, hear me, cut it! Cut it, now!’
I stand with my father’s razor in my hand. I’m motionless. I know I’m disobeying and what that means. But I can’t harm the animal.
The razor slips to the floor; there’s a sharp pain in the front of my head when it falls. I realise I’ve been struck by my father. I lie on the floor beside the razor and when I see him reach for it I fill with panic.
As I get up I feel the cold flap of skin where his knuckle struck bone. There’s blood running from my head, going into my eyes and mouth.
I feel no pain as I watch my father run the open steel across the lamb’s throat. The squealing reaches a higher pitch for a second and then blood chokes its mouth and spills over its flesh into the sink.
I watch the blood pour from the dying animal. Its black eyes are still staring into the heart of me. As I watch the blood flowing, I feel like it’s mine, like the blood I can taste in my mouth from the wound my father made.
30
A drool of saliva stuck me to the arm of the couch. Sweat lashed off my body. I ached all over. ‘Christ, where am I?’
For a moment I thought I replayed the heady, early stages of alcoholism. Days when I greeted every morning in strange new surroundings. But I knew I was past those now. It takes a serious effort to negotiate a kip for the night. My times at the bar had long since been devoted to more serious matters.
I stood up, tried to straighten my back. Hunched over like Yoda, I said, ‘Soon will I rest. Yes, for ever sleep. Earned it I have.’
I realised where I was. Recognised the wooden star clock above the fireplace. Red bulbs twirled behind the black plastic coals, someone had been in to turn on the fire.
I looked around. Felt shocked to find myself here, facing a trophy cabinet full of my father’s sporting achievements. When I was a kid, my friends would come around to stare at them for what seemed like hours. It gave me bags of kudos on the street. They didn’t know the real cost of those trophies.
I heard movement in the kitchen. Plates and cups being laid out on the table. When I went in, my mother stood at the stove stirring some porridge. A vast pot bubbled away.
‘Oh, you’re awake, son.’
‘Good morning, Mam.’
‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘Yeah, I slept just fine,’ I lied. ‘Bit stiff, but got a few hours, you know.’
‘Can’t be too comfy on that couch. You should have went up to your bed… Tea?’
‘Eh, no. Have you any coffee?’
‘Sorry, son. Nobody drinks it since you went. I could nip next door. What time is it?’
I looked at my watch. ‘Just after nine.’
‘Aye, that’s early enough, Dot will be up and about. Hang on, I’ll get some coffee next door.’
‘No, Mam, there’s no need. I’ll take whatever’s going.’
‘Och, no. Sit yourself down, son.’ She beamed, looked delighted to have me home. It seemed to be a real treat for her. She acted like an excited child.
I asked myself how I could ever have denied her this.
As my mother put on a headscarf to nip out the back door she said, ‘Will you go in and see your dad?’
‘Eh, I don’t know.’
‘He’s not eaten yet. You could take him in some breakfast.’
‘Mam, I-’
‘Oh, never mind, son. It’s no matter. If he shouts though, go in.’
‘Does he know I’m here?’
‘Yes. I told him last night. He’s fair over the moon.’ She left, showering me with smiles.
What had I done? I’d no right to be playing with her emotions like this. I knew if I laid eyes on my old man — weak heart or not — I’d be liable to lamp him. I’d stored up a hail of misery for my mother by coming here and the thought wounded me.
I fired up a tab. The smoke filled the kitchen in an instant. I opened up a window, tried to encourage it out into the yard. As I leant over I caught sight of myself in the mirror. It had hung on the kitchen wall since I was too short to see into it. Now, I had to crouch to see myself. I looked rough as all guts. Red rings round my eyes, three days of growth. I needed serious attention.
‘Gus, just take a look at yourself.’ That’s what Debs had said to me. I looked, stared, but I saw nothing. Well, nothing I wanted to see.
‘Ella!’ I heard a roar from upstairs.
It had been years since I’d heard that roar, but it hadn’t changed much.
‘Ella. Ella.’
What was he calling for this time? Another drink? Helping off the floor? A pot to piss in?
‘Ella.’ The roar came again, followed by a thump on the floor. Then another. Three or four in quick succession.
‘Shut your hole…’ I said. I felt my voice trail off. I didn’t want to alert him to the fact I stood in his kitchen.
More thuds. ‘Ella! For the love of Christ, where are you woman?’
‘That’s it. I’m outta here.’
I stubbed my tab in the sink. Ran the tap to clear the ash down the plug hole, and dropped the dowp in the bin.
‘Ella. Ella.’ He roared from upstairs as I put on my jacket. I was doing up the buttons when my mother walked in.
‘Angus? Where are you going?’
‘I’m sorry, Mam.’
She stood open-mouthed, holding up a jar of Red Mountain. ‘But I’ve got your coffee.’
I wanted to go to her, curl her up in my arms. But I couldn’t.
‘ Ella — Ella.’
‘I have to go.’
She put down the jar, got into a panic.
‘Your dad… have you been up to him?’
‘No, Mam. I can’t do that.’
She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, son.’
‘I’m sorry, Mam. I have to go.’
I turned away, went for the door.
31
Grabbed the Evening News. The front page splash was a police raid on a house full of illegal immigrants. I’d read the story a couple of times before it struck me why it seemed so unusual. They’d raided Marchmont. The price tags on houses there carry a long row of Bobby De Niros. I saw we were now talking big business in this racket.
I dipped into R.S. McColls, asked for a pack of Mayfair. Cheapest tabs on the shelf. Yellow-finger specials. I was on a Presbyterian guilt trip, aware I was the only smoker left in Scotland still buying fags from reputable retailers. Christ, what had become of this country? When Joe Public starts buying daily essentials like tabs on the black market, we’re in trouble. Was like the war years.
Sparked up outside. Wasn’t a bad smoke. But knew I’d wake up tomorrow reeking like pub curtains.
I felt a cold snap coming. Suited me fine, took the edge off the craving. And I needed my wits about me if I was gonna press Fitz the Crime for anything useful. Since Milo’s killing, I needed him more than ever.
I’d been besieged by nightmares. They played like this: I’m back at the Fallingdoon House, flames everywhere, and screams… young girls crying their hearts out. I burst through the door, hold out my hand.
‘Come on! Quick, give me your hand,’ I say.
The flames lap all around us, but the girls look like they did the night I saw them, pale-grey ghosts. Half starved, frightened. They recoil from me.
‘Come on! Give me your hand,’ I roar.
I rush into the room, flames lap at the walls, all around thick black smoke chokes us.
‘Christ, I’m not the enemy!’ I say. ‘I’m not the enemy.’
The girls run screaming, huddle in the corner, terrified.
Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn. It’s Milo, but he’s changed. His face is battered to a bloody pulp. Two dark sockets sit where his eyes should be. As he begins to speak, I see flames creeping up his coat tails.
‘Milo, Milo you’re on fire!’ I call out.
I slap at the flames, try to push them back. The heat is intense now, the palms of my hands smoulder in agony.
‘Milo, move would you!’
The girls’ screaming increases in pitch. Everywhere there’s flames and fear. It’s the worst fear I’ve ever known.
‘Milo, you must move. We have to get outside.’
At once, he tips his head down to face me. He begins to speak, and as he does so, the flames engulf his body. He cries and taps at his chest, then speaks but his words are in a language I don’t understand, except for one: ‘Latvia.’
Nadja’s revelation about Billy’s get rich quick plan had been unexpected. It gave me a few bargaining chips to tempt Fitz with. But he was filth, and unpredictable. I’d have to lay it out finely. Make it worth his while.
The bus was packed.
A young jakey barfed in the aisle as we drove down Leith Walk. On a bus full of Leithers, only one woman held her nose.
‘Out,’ roared the driver.
‘Och c’mon…’ said the jakey, ‘It’s pishing doon!’
‘Out now or it’s the polis!’
The driver stood up, tucked himself behind his perspex screen as the jakey pulled down his baseball cap and rolled off the bus. He kicked out at the doors as they closed behind him. Then fell on his arse in the wet street.
The bus pulled out from the kerb, but stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. ‘Just stay in your seats, please!’ said the driver as he opened the doors to let two cans of Omega white cider roll onto the street. After the cans, the jakey’s vomit followed down the aisle and slid over the steps.
I shook my head. Don’t know why, had seen this all a million times before. Somehow, today, things seemed that little bit more annoying. This place was riding on my nerves.
An old boy leaned into my space. He took off his cap, slapped it off my seat. ‘I’d bring back National Service for the likes of him,’ he said.
I turned, faced him, said, ‘I’d bring back hanging for the likes of him.’
32
I ordered up a coffee.
‘Is that a latte or a mocha or-’ The waiter sounded Polish, one of the latest wave of legal migrants. They’d just about wiped out the Aussies in the bars, and now they staked a claim on the cafes.
‘Hold up,’ I cut in, ‘just make it black and strong.’
‘An Americano?’
Was I hearing things? This was Leith. Last bastion of old Edinburgh. There wasn’t a Continental-style piazza for at least 500 yards. The yuppies had redrawn the battle lines.
I waved the waiter off with the back of my hand, said, ‘Whatever.’
He eyeballed me as he went, probably to add some of his home-made gravy to my coffee.
In five minutes he came back, handed me a receipt on a little saucer, two white mints on top, ‘That will be two fifty, please.’
For that kind of poppy, I expected the best coffee of my life. Truth told, it sucked balls into a hernia. I loaded in the milk and sugar, tried to focus on why I was still sat here.
For a while now, I’d been rolling around a quote from Bowie: ‘It’s not really work, it’s just the power to charm.’
Sound advice. If I was going to get anything from Fitz — anything other than an introduction to Mr Nightstick — I’d have to suck shit. I’d probably been too forceful at our last meeting. I’d got him riled. In the past, way back, Fitz had been known as a hothead. He was quick with his fists, coulda been a contender, or so I’d heard.
I’d been on the end of one of Fitz’s kidney punches before, and I wasn’t keen to repeat it. If only for the reason that he could be very useful to me now. Getting him to believe I was doing him a favour would be the key.
Fitz appeared on time. Tearing down Leith Walk in a white heat.
‘Shit, he’s mad as hell,’ I said under my breath.
I stood up, waved a tenner in the air. ‘Waiter, a pot of tea please.’
As I saw Fitz approach the cafe door, he spotted me through the window and glowered. His face looked scarlet, anger shone out of every pore. If I had to pick his match, it was Yosemite Sam, guns blazing.
I got the door for him. ‘Fitz, glad to’ — he stormed past me — ‘see you.’
I watched him remove his coat and take a seat.
I bit down on my back teeth. It went against the grain to go crawling to plod. But, at this stage, what choice did I have? Without the file on Billy, I’d be bust.
‘Okay there, Fitz?’
‘Cut the shite, Dury.’
The waiter brought the tea. I handed over the cash without looking at the bill. Waited for him to leave, said, ‘Consider it cut.’
Fitz’s lower lip pointed at me, his grey teeth on show as he spoke, ‘Have you completely lost the fucking plot, boyo?’
‘Fitz.’
‘No, don’t you Fitz me — when I think about the ways, the thousands of ways, Dury, that I could hang you out to dry.’
I stopped him in his tracks, pointed a finger. ‘Cool the beans, Fitz.’
He poured his tea, looked around. ‘This place has gone to the dogs.’
‘Haven’t we all.’
I passed the milk and sugar. Watched him stir them in.
‘What’s your game, Dury?’
I tried to clear the air. Played up to his ego. ‘Look, about that earlier stuff — just forget it. I was a bit…’
‘Pissed?’ He laughed at his own joke.
A wry smile. ‘Well… let’s leave it that I was wrong to abuse the friendship.’
He burst into uproarious guffaws. ‘Friends? You and me?’ The thought brought a tear to his eye.
I had him blindsided, hit him with: ‘Yeah. Who the fuck am I kidding? Let’s keep things on a business footing. I’ve something for you.’
He pushed aside his teacup, leant forward. ‘What’s this bollocks you’re talking, Dury?’
‘Now, now. Nothing for nothing.’
‘Fuck off.’
I went
for the kill. ‘Fitz, I’m onto something here, something big.’
‘Billy Boy?’ I knew by the tone of his voice he’d already done his homework.
‘You know what I’m on about? For Chrissake, Fitz, he was tortured to death in a public place.’
‘So?’
‘So — these days, a wee lassie falls over and scrapes her knee and there’s cops running around kitted out like Dustin Hoffman from that Outbreak movie. But Billy’s taken out good style, and your lot sweep it under the carpet!’
He leant back, took a sip of his tea. Topped up the cup from the pot. I saw he was thinking things through.
‘What have you got?’
‘Uh-uh. First the file.’
‘Arrah, there’s no way. No way, Dury.’
‘Why not? You know I’m not messing about.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Fitz, if you help me out, I could put you back on the K-ladder. This isn’t just about Billy, there’s been another murder, one of your countrymen as it happens.’
He took a slow sip of tea.
‘Think about it, Fitz. Do you want that DI’s badge back?’
He stood up, went for his coat. ‘Not in here.’
I followed him out. Lit up a Mayfair. It seemed to hit the spot.
‘Look, I can’t just remove a file. What world are you living in? It’s all computerised these days, a printout sends warning lights flashing. What exactly do you need to know?’
‘Who’s behind this?’
‘By the holy, Gus — is that something anyone would put on a file? All I can tell you is there’s a, shall we say, tacit agreement to lay off this one.’
‘From who?’
‘The top.’
‘Why? Do you know why?’
‘Let’s just say our Billy was dealing with some very unsavoury characters.’
‘Zalinskas.’
‘Vice are all over him.’
‘So, they hung Billy out to dry?’
‘Bigger fish to fry.’
I took my turn to deliver the goods. I told Fitz about the Latvians at Fallingdoon House. About Milo’s calls, and the fire. I left out Nadja’s involvement; she could still be useful to me.
‘That’s it? You wouldn’t be holding out on me here, Dury?’
