His breath is shallow. If I concentrate, I can feel the pulse of his heart beating in his chest.
Less than an inch apart.
My right hand comes up, brushes his cheek. He’s breathing so hard, he might pass out.
I scratch at his face. Hard. Nails rip into skin. Blood trickles between my fingers. I pull down slowly, painfully, agonisingly.
He doesn’t flinch.
I pull back.
He stays hunkered down, still one hand holding the gun, the other rising to touch where I scratched him. When he pulls it away, he looks at his hand, and his brow furrows. Like he can’t understand why he’s seeing blood.
I say again, ‘Kill me. If you’re going to kill everyone else, you might as well kill me.’
Scorched earth. Isn’t that what they call it? When you burn everything. Leave nothing behind. At heart, I’m a Scobie. As corrupt as the rest of them. Even if just through inaction.
‘Aye,’ he says. ‘I will.’
I think of all the people who died before and after I threw Crawford out of my house, refused to help him in his cause. All the people in thrall to my uncle, my cousin Tony, the drug addicts and degenerates. The gamblers taken in, all the weak, weak men lured by the promise a cheap encounter in a sauna that always cost them more than they’d ever expect.
I was guilty by omission. Complicit. Deliberately dumb and blind. I’d known the truth all the time. Just never admitted it because the idea was too terrifying to admit.
Ray gets to his feet. Looks at me for a moment. Still holding the gun.
The clip is full. He’s ready for the oncoming storm. Can he waste one bullet?
I hold my breath.
Unable to read the expression on his face.
JOHN
‘We tried twice before.’ Crawford told me. ‘Inserting people into the network, working them up the chain.’
‘What happened?’
Crawford spun the folder across the table. Printouts fanned over the faux wood surface. Hi-res, art-framed, but brutal. Men disfigured and dead. Tortured. Brutalised. The kind of things you saw in flashes on the TV, but momentary and blurred. In real life, you couldn’t look away, couldn’t cut to the next scene.
‘Your predecessors.’
My predecessors.
‘You know this isn’t the way to keep me interested in the job?’
Except it was. He knew it. Could see in my eyes that I wasn’t worried about dying. Could read in my file that I had no family, no real friends, no connections.
It wasn’t simply that I was unafraid of death. Just that it wouldn’t have too many repercussions.
There was silence between us.
The men on the table with their eyes still open stared at us.
‘What happened to blow their cover?’
‘The Scobie boys aren’t daft. Not even Tony.’ Aye, well, it’s easy to underestimate a psychopath.
Of the three, Tony was the most unstable. I’d seen lots of paper on him. Most of it should never have crossed my eyes, but there and ways and means of seeing things you’re not supposed to. Crawford knew that, and I guess it was one of the reasons he’d brought me on board. I was adaptable. Didn’t care so much about following procedure as doing what needed to be done.
Even back when I came in, word was floating around about the SCDEA’s future. The joint operation that Crawford had set up was in danger of becoming obsolete. Time was a factor. There could be no more mistakes. No more dead men.
I was the man Crawford was willing to put his faith in. What did that say about his judgement of character?
Back then, I was the kind of arsehole he wanted undercover. The kind of man who might be able to form a bond with Tony Scobie. On paper, I was a pretty shitty copper, but I could make a great wannabe criminal.
What I read about Anthony Scobie told me that he was a narcissistic personality type, prone to violent outbursts, and lacking in impulse control. He was of high intelligence, maybe higher than most. But he was unable to focus that intelligence, make it mean anything. He remained in his father’s shadow. Never stepped up. Never took charge of anything. But he always talked about it, told people that one day he’d be running things.
So why didn’t he just reach out and take what he wanted? Because he didn’t really want to? Or because Dad refused to grant him any kind of power and despite all his talk, Tony was really scared of the old man?
It was hard to say. Even after a year and a half undercover, I can’t give you a clear answer.
I said to Crawford, ‘Tell me how they blew their cover.’
‘We don’t know. We just… We have to try and feed you into the food chain from a new angle. They won’t trust anyone coming in on outside reference. Or even inside, now. Derek Scobie’s paranoia’s got him close to breaking point. One of these poor bastards, we put him in a cell next to one of Tony’s goons. He had no ties back to the force. Nothing on paper. Nothing to say who he was. He got close… Closer than anyone else.’
‘And then he got dead.’
‘Aye, that’s it.’
I thought about the pictures.
‘How do I approach this?’
‘Social angle, that’s what we figure. Get close to the family, make it clear you’re up for sale, maybe, that you’re someone they can use.’
‘A dirty copper?’
‘No. It’s too close… Too much risk.’
‘Then what?’
‘You joined the force after university, right? You were going to be an accountant?’
‘Right. My dad thought it would be respectable.’
‘We use that. The Scobies run a lot of business through fronts. Ones they own directly, others they swallow up when things go bad for the owners.’
‘They need people to cook the books.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s been a long time since uni. I can barely remember how to spell accountancy… Besides, I only just scraped a pass. I wasn’t interested in –’
‘That’s even better.’
‘Aye?’
‘If you were good at your job, why would they need you? Gives them something to lean on you with. Try and convince you’re not where you should be. You deserve better. They know if you were that good, they wouldn’t be able to touch you. They need a loser, someone they can boss around. Let them see that. Let them make the offer first.’
‘They don’t have their own people?’
‘Arrangements can be made. Derek and his boys may keep themselves clean, but the people beneath them…we can make life tough.’
‘Bit of a coincidence if I just turn up.’
‘Life is full of them. Have you ever thought about that?’ Crawford leaned across the table.
He had a point. Coincidence was a part of life. Coincidence had brought us together. So why was my stomach churning? It wouldn’t be my first time undercover. I’d worked stings before: short-term operations with quick pay-offs. But this would be an extended gig.
With one difference.
We had no time to set up properly. We had to play it by ear. Drop me in at the deep end. With the SCDEA’s time running out, and pressure coming from above regarding the operation, Crawford wanted me in fast.
‘You really think I’m the man for the job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Burke doesn’t.’ Putting it mildly. First time I was called in to discuss the operation, Burke had been in the room. He was Crawford’s number two, saw it as his job to play devil’s advocate, shooting down everything he could, making sure no-one was cutting corners, no-one was taking the job less than seriously. And I guess he’d figured the best way to do that was to get in my face, pick my faults, tell me I was fucked before I even started.
Tough love? The toughest.
‘In his own way, he does.’
‘Prick has a funny way of showing it.’
‘You should see how he was with the other candidates.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Just
his way.’
‘When do I start?’
‘You’re sure?’
I’d been sure since they first told me what this was about. Since they first mentioned the name Scobie.
This was my shot at the big time. The chance to really contribute. To find out what I was made of.
Was I worried?
I thought about the images again. They worried me. Knowing how those poor bastards died. In pain. Alone. But then, I’d always been alone. Made sense for me to die that way, if I had to.
Maybe that’s the way Crawford saw it too, even if he wasn’t being direct.
‘I’m sure.’
* * *
In the passenger’s seat, thinking about how I got here.
We pull over, park in the shadow of the bridge on Wishart Street. The street is empty. There’s something strange about the emptiness, a quiet and stillness I don’t usually associate with Glasgow. Maybe it’s the dead that sleep on either side of the road.
In the near distance, the high lights of office buildings spark in the skyline beyond the edge of the Cathedral that sits proud in the moonlight.
Tony, in the driver’s seat, says, ‘She’ll be fine, man.’ I don’t say anything. ‘You still love her? I mean, despite everything that happened?’
‘Aye, I do.’
And that was maybe the only true thing about me. I was a fake as a cop. Fake as a criminal. I didn’t know who I was, what I wanted.
The one thing I should have been faking was the only thing that was true.
Tony was quiet for a moment. ‘Then she’ll be fine.’
Platitudes. I think he’s reassuring himself as much as me. Can’t figure why Tony’s so attached to her, but he is. Sometimes he says that he owes her his life, but won’t tell me why. Maybe its hyperbole. Doesn’t matter. It’s useful to me here and now. Means I can use him to bargain for her life.
If she’s still alive.
Dunc told me she was shot. The way the world works is that men like Ray keep going, while the innocent suffer.
But I have to try.
I say, ‘She made me feel like I wasn’t alone.’ My cheeks burn. I don’t know why I spoke, exposing myself to him like that. I look out of the passenger window at the slopes of the Necropolis across the road.
‘That’s love,’ Tony says, and for a second I think he means it. Then, changing the subject, and his tone, fast: ‘Well, at least my brother wasn’t lying.’
On the other side of the road, on the other side of the bridge, there’s another car. I recognise it. Same model of Megane I saw Kat driving after the wake. Only a few hours ago, but I’m so tired it could have been days.
It would make sense to take things slow and cautious. But what I do is jump out the car and run towards the other vehicle. Press my face against the windows on the driver’s. There are dark stains on the seats.
Blood?
Whose?
Is Kat really still alive?
‘What the fuck’re you doing, you eejit?’ Tony’s right behind me. Grabs me by the collar, spins me round and shoves me so that I slam against the body of the car. He’s in my face. I can smell his breath, rancid, hot and rotting. ‘Could be anything in there. The bastard could be waiting for us.’
We’re both still for a moment. But nothing happens.
Tony keeps hold of me with one hand, uses the other to jab an index finger against my forehead. ‘Think before you act.’ He lets go, pushing me away from him again, walks into the middle of the road and spits. ‘Pillock,’ he mutters.
My breath catches. I force it out, get this sharp, cold sensation right beneath my breastbone as if the air in my lungs is turning to ice. I watch Tony stand completely still in the middle of the road. He looks at the ground, like he’s trying to figure something out. But then there’s the noise of a car approaching, and he steps back beside me.
The headlights come in from John Knox Street, to the south. We wait for them to reach us. The vehicle slows down and pulls in behind Ray’s car.
Wayne and Pete climb out. They’re packing, guns out. No chances being taken tonight. Blood has already been spilt. The fuck does it matter now if the police catch up to them? This is about something deeper than the law.
Tony says, ‘You know the plan, then.’
Pete says, ‘No worries.’
Wayne gives me a wink. The expression on his face makes me think of a little boy who’s finally been around to ride with the firemen and set off the blue lights.
They both carry the Glocks with confidence, maybe living out some kind of fantasy in their own heads. Dressed in shellsuit bottoms and Adidas tops, they don’t look as kick-arse as they might believe. They cross the road, jump the fence and climb the incline towards the Major Archibald Douglas Monteath Mausoleum. Keeping to the shadows. Hunched over.
I think about when I first met them, Pete telling me about Wayne’s fantasies of being Jack Bauer from 24. The kind of fantasies that tend to go wrong when brought into the real world.
Tony looks at me, says, ‘Come on, then,’ and starts to walk the direction that Pete and Wayne drive in from. Two minutes to the end of the road, we hop the locked gates and follow the main path into the Necropolis.
This time of night, the Necropolis takes on an odd power. The creeping shadows of the monuments to lives lived, the still of the night, the quiet that falls within its confines as though the noises of the living are too afraid to impose. An atmosphere that tickles somewhere at the base of the neck. As though there is something lurking in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.
There are things there. Moving in places they can’t be seen. Drug addicts looking for shelter. Foxes and night time scavengers.
And, tonight, killers waiting for a reckoning.
We walk deeper into the city of the dead.
I look at my watch. Nearly 3am.The sun comes up at around half seven now. By the time it does, all of this will be over.
One way or another.
KAT
I’m looking at the stars. And I’m alive.
My back is cold, but not uncomfortable. Something about the way the damp seeps through my clothes makes me feel more awake that I’ve been in a long time. The solidity of the stone connects me to the world.
I’m alive.
I’m looking at the stars and I’m alive.
I should be dead. After everything that’s happened, I should be dead.
I say, ‘Thank you.’ Not really sure who I’m speaking to. Surely not God. I gave up on Him before I even hit my teens, and we certainly haven’t been on speaking terms since Mum’s death. I still visit his house, drink his wine, but it’s more habit than anything.
Ray is silent. He’s on his feet, waiting patiently. If I turn my head, I can see his feet and just beyond them the case. He’s completely still. Might as well be one of the statues dotted around here.
I say, again: ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re talking to me?’
I smile. ‘I don’t see anyone else here.’ Then I turn my head again to look at the stars. ‘You killed a man because he hurt me.’ My mind starts racing through my life. Remembering little moments here and there. Seeing on the news what Ray did to the boy who broke my heart. Holding Mum’s hand and knowing she couldn’t respond. Laughing with a boy whose name I can’t even remember when we slid round the tin-can waltzers at the fair.
Disconnected moments. Memories of a life I wish I remembered better.
‘I’d have gone back to him, you know. Because I was too young and too stupid to know better.’
‘Who?’
For the first time since I saw the news, I say his name. ‘Andy.’
‘I never…said –’
‘I knew. I knew you killed him. Maybe even why.’
He doesn’t respond. I can’t see, but I think he might be blushing.
‘You killed Lesley.’
That kills the mood. He won’t look at me.
‘Not for you. She was…in my way. Warned her.�
�
‘Because she tried to call the police?’
‘Told her not to. Told her she…would be okay if…. she didn’t do…anything stupid.’
‘Most people wouldn’t consider calling the police to be stupid.’
‘Would you? Call them?’
‘No.’
He takes that as his answer.
I try to make him understand. ‘But I’m a Scobie.’
‘Blood. Not nature.’
‘What’s that mean?’
He doesn’t say anything.
Slowly, my muscles weak now, I pull my knees to chest and wrap my arms round them for warmth.
I sat like this on beaches when I was a child. Sitting in the sand for hours, staring out at the sea, watching the waves lap gently against each other. Excited by froth, by the idea that there was something violent just beneath the surface of the water. Always wanting to dive in, see the waves from underneath, experience the world from a whole new perspective.
Never did, though. Much as I loved to watch, I was always too scared to dive in. Never even took a dip in a swimming pool. I shower rather than bath.
Call it a quirk. Or, like Tony does, call it messed up. Which is rich, coming from him.
Ray says, ‘Someone’s coming.’ He’s alert, standing straight.
I push back against the stone. My side screams with agony as I move. But I need to be on my feet. I place the back of my hands against the tomb, walk myself upright. The tears come heavy, but I don’t make a sound.
Two men come into view, walking the main path. I can tell who they are just by the dark outlines, the way they carry themselves.
Tony walks with a hard-man swagger. His legs are bowed, like a cowboy. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hesitate. Beside him, John. More hesitant, less certain.
John, my former fiancé. John, the man who betrayed me.
And my family.
My heart skips beats. More threatening than the kind of skips you get when you’re in love. I think about a song my mum and dad used to sing, back when I was a kid. My heart does the same kind of rhythm they would sing about.
And When I Die Page 18
