Ways to Die in Glasgow

by Jay Stringer

  Fiona had rounded the corner and headed beneath the Hielanman’s Umbrella, the large glass-walled bridge that sat astride Argyle Street as an overpass for the trains. I heard them rumbling overhead. I went full-on Tom Cruise with the pumping fists as I ran, and got my head down. I was going to find the extra gear even if it killed me. Something clicked, that smooth feeling that takes over when you find the perfect running zone, and I started to gain on her. She must have felt me drawing close because she took a look back at me and then tripped over one of the beggars sitting in a shop doorway, and fell. The money from the upturned hat spread out across the pavement, and the beggar screamed out and started shouting in a language I didn’t recognise, scrabbling around to pick up the coins. I grabbed Fiona by the hood and pulled her towards me, but she wriggled free and rolled away from me. She stood up and turned into the train station, started to run again as she found her balance. She headed down the escalator to the lower-level platforms, taking the moving steps two and three at a time, and I followed. She vaulted the ticket barrier before the guard could stop her, but it meant he’d had advance warning before I got there, and his arms were outstretched like a scarecrow’s, blocking my path.

  I took the direct option and barrelled right through him, knocking him over, and then climbed over the barrier. I’d apologise later, and I sent up a prayer to whoever was listening that he’d be okay about it once he understood.

  Down the corridor and round the left-hand bend, and then down the old tiled steps onto the platform, I could hear Fiona’s footsteps, but I was always just out of sight of her. On the platform I was closer than I thought, and I could almost reach out to grab her. The cramped space rumbled with an approaching train as it slowed to come into the station, and Fiona paused for a split second to look at it. In that moment I caught her, and we locked eyes, long enough for me to see she knew it, and long enough to feel like I’d achieved something. As I reached out to grab her, she twisted away from me, and her ankle buckled. She slipped, and as I made a second attempt to grab at her, she didn’t help herself by trying to evade me again.

  She fell forward, off the platform and into the path of the oncoming train.

  I felt, rather than saw, the impact. The sound came a nanosecond later, the dull thudding of something heavy and meaty being sliced up by something heavier and metal. Then the screaming started, everyone on the platform reacting to what they’d just seen, and mingled with the high-pitched whine of the train’s emergency brakes. I sank to my knees and thought, for just a moment, about how long it was going to be before I could eat meat again.

  At some point later, maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe decades, Cummings knelt down to smile at me. He helped me to my feet.

  ‘Hey, Ireland,’ he said. ‘Who died and made you Batman?’

  In spite of everything, I found a laugh. ‘Don’t mention that to my brother.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  He stood up and offered a hand to pull me up, but I waved it away. I stood up under my own steam. I didn’t need help. He was watching me, waiting to see what I did next.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  I smiled. ‘I’m fine.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Al Guthrie for being the first person to challenge me to raise my game, back when I was starting out, and for being here now to bring this book across the line.

  Thanks as always to Stacia Decker, who manages to put up with all my whining and yet still somehow thinks I’m worth representing. I get to be part of the coolest team in crime fiction.

  Thanks to Emilie Marneur for bringing me across to the UK crew and for believing in this book, to Jill Pellarin for covering up my bad grammar, and Neil Hart for the right answer at the right moment.

  Ray Banks and Jacque Ben-Zekry take turns keeping me in line. Johnny Shaw makes me want to bring a little more fun to the work. Erik Ben-Zekry kept me company late at night while I was working, and Christa Faust fed me a diet of some really shitty films at just the right time to get this whole project finished.

  Thanks to all my family and friends in Glasgow, especially those who’ve managed to work their way into this book. Thanks to the city itself, for waking me up.

  And, of course, thanks to my wife, Lisa-Marie, for every single thing.

  About the Author

  Photo © 2013 John Keatley

  Jay Stringer was born in Walsall, England, in 1980. He’s not dead yet. He is dyslexic and approaches writing like a blood sport.

  Before becoming a writer, Jay served his apprenticeship by working as a zookeeper, a bookseller, a video editor and a call centre lackey. He currently lives in Glasgow, Scotland, but dreams every night of the tall buildings and deep streets of New York.

  All this literary mayhem is fun, but deep down what he really wants to do is write an episode of Doctor Who. Until then, you can find Jay writing about crime fiction at DoSomeDamage.com and comic books at Panels.Net.