The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

  Glass is walking up to the door. Knocking twice and stepping back. He doesn’t know how Garvey will react to this. Instinct said this was the guy to try. No better option. But it’s late and he might not react well to a drunk young man turning up on his doorstep. But then, how else does a man like him make a living?

  The door’s opening. Garvey looking back at him. A deep frown because he doesn’t immediately recognize the young man before him. Then a creeping recognition, although he’s still not quite sure.

  ‘I need to buy a gun from you,’ Glass is saying.

  Garvey’s leaning his head out the door and looking up and down the street. Letting Glass know that that’s not the sort of sentence you blurt out on a man’s doorstep. ‘That right?’ he’s saying.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have much money. But I need it. I really do. I have two hundred quid.’

  Garvey’s snorting. ‘I think you came to the wrong house, kid,’ he’s saying, and moving to close the door.

  ‘Please. They killed my girlfriend last night. I need that gun. They killed her and I need the gun.’

  Garvey’s looking down at him. Pausing. Thinking this through. Some dumb emotional kid running round with one of his guns is usually bad news. Sort of thing he’s careful to avoid. Only sell to people you trust. People who know how to use and then safely get rid of a gun. Only sell to people you’re sure won’t be caught and blab about where they got the gun they were caught with. But chances come along. The opportunity to ingratiate. You don’t pass that up.

  ‘Hold on there. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ Garvey’s saying. Closing the front door and bounding upstairs to the spare room. Getting one of his mobiles out from the drawer in his desk and ringing the only number stored on it.

  Takes a while for Marty to answer it. Must be busy. Always busy these days. Answering the phone with a curt hello. Sounds like he’s outside; there’s a car driving past.

  ‘Marty, Mark Garvey. Listen, I got a kid at the door you might be interested in. The Glass kid. Remember him? Wasn’t he pally with that Peterkinney boy you were after?’ Marty told Garvey the story at a party. How Peterkinney screwed him over. His way of making sure Garvey knew that Peterkinney was persona non grata. That any man who sold him weapons would be an enemy of Marty’s.

  ‘He was. What does he want?’

  ‘Says someone killed his girlfriend last night. Looking for a gun he can’t afford. Revenge, probably.’

  There’s a pause while Marty thinks about it. Garvey allowing him the time to work it out. If it was one of Marty’s boys that killed the girl then this is a warning. Letting him know that Glass is on the prowl. If it wasn’t one of Marty’s then this might be an opportunity for him. Let Glass cause problems for someone else.

  ‘Sell him the piece. I’ll make up the difference.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that, Marty. Just thought I’d clear it with you first. I’ll catch up with you sometime,’ he’s saying. His way of saying that he’s doing Marty a favour here and that he expects something in return.

  ‘Sure,’ Marty’s saying, and hanging up. Obviously it’s not one of Marty’s boys that did the deed then.

  Garvey’s out into the corridor and pulling open a cupboard door. Opening a suitcase on the floor and taking a small handgun from the inside lining. He doesn’t make a fantastic effort to hide his stock. If the police come calling, they’ll turn the place upside down anyway. No such thing as a good hiding place. You make a little bit of effort to hide the stuff, but you’re just inconveniencing yourself to do more.

  He’s wrapped his hand in a cloth before he handles the gun. Now he’s stuffing it into one of the large Jiffy bags he keeps in the cupboard. Making his way quickly downstairs. Opening the front door. Glass is still there. Looks like he hasn’t moved an inch. Perfectly still and perfectly miserable.

  ‘Let’s see your money,’ Garvey’s saying quietly.

  Glass is reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bundle of notes. Some twenty-pound notes, some ten, some five. Always a sign that the person wasn’t prepared for the purchase. That this is a rush job, bringing together any note they can lay their hands on. Garvey’s reaching out and taking it, handing the Jiffy bag to Glass.

  ‘It’s loaded,’ Garvey is telling him. ‘If you get caught with it, you do not tell anyone where you got it from. You got that?’

  But Glass has already turned away and is walking down the front path to the gate. No desire to stay and chat. No desire to stay and hear a rule book he already knows. He’ll never talk to anyone about the gun. Never would. He’s not even thinking about it. Just walking along the street with the Jiffy bag in his hand for all to see. He knows exactly where he’s going now.

  11

  Arnie’s waited and waited. Hoping that Glass will come back to the flat of his own free will. He wasn’t emotional when he left. Just worried about the police coming to talk to him. Something they will eventually do and something Glass will have to face. Needs time to get used to that idea. Just wait and the boy will come back.

  Sitting in the flat, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the police to demand some answers. They should have called by now. Maybe they didn’t think to ask the receptionist at the hospital. Well, if they’re that desperate they’ll put out some sort of appeal. Arnie worried about what Glass will tell them. What moronic act of self-sabotage he might be drawn into. But that’s not the only worry.

  What will Arnie tell them? They’ll question him too. They’re not stupid. Well, the ones that ask the important questions aren’t. They’ll spot the connection to Oliver. They’ll begin to piece it together. Sitting in his armchair, wishing there were other people in his life. Sixty-four years old and he has so few people to care for. Even fewer who care about him. It would help if there was someone else he could talk to. Tell them about this. A different perspective. But there’s nobody. There’s Arnie, there’s Glass and there’s Oliver, and that’s the end of it.

  It’s well past teatime. Getting dark out there. A silent day. No Glass. No police. He wants to do something. Needs to do something. Needs to go and find Glass. He could be sitting in a police station right now. Might have gone straight there in the morning and started talking. Arnie’s phoning Glass’s mobile. It’s ringing, but there’s no answer. Calling again and being ignored a second time.

  It would be switched off if he was in a police station. A deep breath. Think about it. Where would he have gone? An emotional boy, who just lost his wee girlfriend. He would have gone back to their flat. That’s an obvious answer. He wanted to be away from everyone. Away from the world, and living in silence. His own flat would be a good place to do that. Time of crisis, flee for home. The right place to check first.

  Going to his neighbour’s flat first. He could take the bus, but there’s a feeling of urgency settling in his guts. Wherever Glass is, Arnie wants to be there fast. If the kid doesn’t know what he’s doing, then he has to be stopped from doing it. His neighbour is still willing to lend the car. The more Arnie asks, the less willing he is, but Arnie’s built up a decent store of goodwill.

  Driving through the city, but the going is slow. End of the working day. Everyone eager to get away from whatever place they call work. Not all so eager to get to whatever place they call home. Arnie’s struggling to get through the traffic. Not getting impatient though. Glass has had hours of a head start. Could be anywhere he wants to be at this point.

  Parking outside the block and going inside. Up the stairs and along to the front door. The door of the next flat is wide open, although there’s nobody there. Arnie’s knocking on Glass’s door. Standing back and waiting.

  ‘Not in,’ a voice is saying gruffly to him.

  Arnie’s looking to his right. A man of roughly his own age is now standing in the open doorway of the neighbouring flat. Stocky, wearing a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Lighting a cigarette, which is presumably the reason he’s standing in the corridor.

  ‘Has he been h
ere today, do you know?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Here a while ago. Came and went . . . The girl died.’

  ‘I know,’ Arnie’s nodding. Not sure whether this man has any idea who he is, or whether he’s just making bad conversation. ‘You don’t know where he was going?’

  ‘No. Came and went. Didn’t have anything with him when he left . . . He do it?’

  Arnie’s looking at the man. Angrier than he should be. Hardly a surprise that people are speculating on who killed Ella. Hardly a surprise that people want to point the finger at Glass. He’s an obvious target. A young man with no job and known connections to criminals. Too easy a target to miss.

  ‘No, he did not,’ Arnie’s saying. Letting the anger rumble out. Turning and walking back along the corridor, leaving the neighbour to raise his eyebrows in barely bothered response.

  Down the stairs and back out to the car. Glass came to the flat and then left. Why would he come to the flat? Maybe to collect something. Well, that doesn’t take a lot of working out. What would he have in the flat? A weapon? No. Any weapon in the flat the police would have taken. Money, maybe. Money to drink. Money for drugs. Or money for a weapon, if you want to wake up and get real here.

  Arnie’s standing beside the car, hands on the roof. Take a deep breath. Think clearly. Would Glass do it? He’s come to think of him as such a likeable boy. Always thought he was a loser when he was pals with Oliver. Thought he was a bad influence and a waster. Got to know him and decided that he was a waster, but one that could be saved. A goof with a good heart. And he’s tricked himself into thinking of Glass that way ever since.

  But he’s thinking back to that night when Glass turned up at the flat. Thinking of that conversation. He can be as likeable as he wants, but Alex Glass has killed before. Killed because he was in debt and that was his way of getting out. Essentially, killed for money. This isn’t money. This is something more powerful. He could do it again. Don’t kid yourself, he could do it again.

  Arnie’s getting into the car. Heading for Peterkinney’s flat, cursing himself for not going there first. Because he’s a coward. That’s what he’s telling himself. He’s a coward, and if he wasn’t, he would have gone to Oliver’s flat first. Even just to warn him. But he warned him last night. Told him what had happened. That was a warning. Ah, stop trying to persuade yourself that you’ve done enough. Stop hoping that the worst-case scenario won’t play out. You’re going to get what you deserve, and you deserve the worst.

  He’s turning onto the street where Oliver lives. No sign of drama at first, but as he pulls to a stop outside the building he can see something. People on the street. The front door to the building wide open. Arnie’s jumping out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. Running to the steps at the front of the building. There are four or five respectable-looking people standing nervously around, some in their nightclothes. Not the sort of people to be seen in public in their nightclothes unless they had a very serious reason.

  ‘You shouldn’t go in there,’ one of them is shouting at Arnie as he bounds past. Which is when Arnie knows he should go in. Knows he should have been here hours ago.

  He’s at the top of the stairs, struggling to catch his breath. He can see the door of Oliver’s flat, ajar. Something lying on the floor outside the door. Looks like a big envelope. He’s walking slowly towards the door when he hears the bang. A single gunshot, muffled and shocking. Arnie’s stopped. Standing in the corridor, waiting for something else to happen. Taking baby steps towards the front door. Pushing it open. Nothing in the corridor before him. Walking slowly forwards. Pushing open the door to the kitchen, praying that his instincts are wrong.

  12

  Glass’s legs are aching now. Walking through the streets with the Jiffy bag in his hand. Nobody cares. Nobody paying him attention. Just some young guy wandering the streets with a large padded envelope. Why should anyone care about that? There are stranger things to see in this city at this hour. Glass can walk without raising an eyebrow, even if he’s walking unsteadily. Weaving a little, on autopilot.

  He bumped into a woman. She said something to him, shoved him sideways. He said nothing. Kept on walking. Doesn’t want to be stopped by her or by anyone. It has to be tonight. There won’t be a second chance. If he gets into an argument with someone, they’ll stop him. Maybe call the police, and then it’ll never happen. He’ll never be able to finish this. Never be able to give this the ending it needs.

  Onto the right street. He knows it. Ewan Drummond told him where the building was, one night in a pub. Ewan seemed impressed. Been along here a few times in the last few months, just to see. See where his mate ended up. See what he left the rest of them behind for. Nice street. Nice buildings. Seems like it would have been worth leaving a lot behind for. The sort of place he always saw himself being in the future. Him and Ella. Maybe with kids. Both making good money in jobs they didn’t have to be ashamed of. With loads of friends. This was where he saw it ending up. It started with the fun lifestyle they had in the beginning. It ended with the sort of life you live on a street like this. It was the bit in the middle that he never figured out. How do you get from one to the other?

  Walking up the steps to the front door. Names next to numbers next to buttons. O. Peterkinney. Pressing the buzzer and waiting. It’s dark now. Must be night-time. Wait a little longer than you usually would before you press the buzzer again.

  A crackle. A voice. ‘Yes?’

  Doesn’t know what to say. Hadn’t thought this far ahead. ‘It’s Alex,’ he’s saying in response.

  There’s a long pause before Peterkinney’s voice comes back at him. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I know. But . . . but we need to talk. We do, don’t we?’

  There’s a pause. Another long one. Peterkinney is getting a lot of practice at these. ‘Come up,’ he’s saying, and the buzzer on the door goes.

  Glass is pushing his way inside. Out of the cold and into the building. He doesn’t know where in the building the flat is. Walking along the short corridor and looking at the numbers on the doors. Neither of these. Turning back and going up the stairs. Slowly. By the time he’s reached the top of the stairs, Peterkinney has opened his front door. Standing in the corridor waiting for him, wondering what’s taking so long. The conversation with his grandfather was tough. This will be worse. Hurry it up, get it over.

  Watching Glass walking the few steps from the top of the stairs and resisting the urge to shake his head. He looks a mess. Not just rough, but like he’s aged a decade. Okay, sure, he’s had a tough day or two. But there’s something else. He looks wasted. Like he’s staring just off-centre. He’s got a big padded envelope in his hand. Carrying something around. Probably something belonging to Ella. Pictures, Peterkinney’s betting. This is going to be one of those tearful look-at-what-you’ve-destroyed conversations. Glass has had a breakdown, Peterkinney’s sure.

  ‘Alex. You want to come in?’ Better to have this conversation away from the neighbours. There might be shouting. There’ll almost certainly be crying on Glass’s part. He looks halfway to tears already, and they haven’t started yet.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this, Oliver,’ Glass is saying and shaking his head.

  Pitiful. ‘All right, okay. It’s been tough, I know. Why don’t you come in, we’ll talk about it.’ Doesn’t really want this wreck in his flat, but it’s the only option. He can talk to him. Maybe win him round. Make sure he leaves here with the right message to tell the police next time they’re talking to him. He’s smarter than Glass. He can get him under control.

  But Glass isn’t moving to come into the flat. He’s still standing there, looking at Peterkinney. Then, like he’s just realized he still has it, looking down at the Jiffy bag. Holding it in front of him and stuffing his free hand inside. Great, here come the photos or some other trinket of the past. Something that’s supposed to provoke guilt and regret. Something that’s supposed to drag Peterkinney down to Glass’s emotional level.


  Glass is pulling out the gun, holding it in front of himself for a second. Then dropping the Jiffy bag on the floor and pointing the gun at Peterkinney. Weird thing is, as soon as Peterkinney sees the gun, he’s thinking about the Jiffy bag. He knows that the gun must have come from Mark Garvey. He’s the one who uses those padded envelopes rather than a carrier bag. Takes him a few more seconds to realize that an emotional Glass is pointing a gun at him. He just doesn’t associate Glass with danger.

  ‘Come off it, Alex. Look, come in, we’ll talk, okay. This? This isn’t the right way to do this. Come in, okay. We can talk.’

  Glass taking a step towards him, but not lowering the gun. He’s not following Peterkinney’s instructions; he’s pushing him backwards with the point of the gun. Trying to take control of the situation. Neither of them spotting the neighbour who’s emerged at the top of the stairs. He’s seen the gun. The Good Samaritan who’ll get everyone out of the building. Peterkinney’s stepping back, leaving the door open for Glass to follow him in. Still doesn’t feel dangerous. After all, it’s Alex Glass. His old mate. He’s harmless. He can be talked round.

  ‘Inside. Go on,’ Glass is saying, nodding in the direction of the first door he sees. The kitchen. Peterkinney’s going slowly. Glass trying to shove the front door shut behind him, but not closing it all the way. Draught excluder at the bottom always catches on the carpet. You have to give it a good shove, which Glass hasn’t. Doesn’t seem to care. Walking along the corridor, gun still raised.