by Alan Parks
The sound was muffled this time, no crack. A reddish mist appeared on the other side of the boy’s head, bits of bone, then a thick jet of blood flew yards up into the sky. He wobbled, eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed forward onto his knees, stayed like that for a second or so, then fell forward onto the ground.
McCoy ran over and kicked the gun out his hand, trying to avoid the blood still pouring out the side of his head. Up close he was even younger than he thought. A pair of dirty white plimsolls, quilted anorak with a tear at the pocket, sparse moustache barely covering his top lip. A froth of blood was bubbling out from the side of his mouth, big chunk of the back of his skull gone, bone and brain fragments all over the tarmac.
Wattie was kneeling down by the girl, fingers on her neck. He held them there for a minute then looked up and shook his head. McCoy wasn’t surprised; amount of blood pouring out of her, she didn’t have much of a chance. Tannoy was still going. The 14 bus from Auchinairn was going to be late. He looked up at the sky and let the snow fall on his face. He could hear sirens in the distance getting louder. He turned as a bus wheeled round into the bay in front of them, driver in the cab staring at the bodies open-mouthed. He stood on the brakes too late and his bus slid across the asphalt and into the station wall. There was a crunch and the driver fell forward and landed on the horn. It blared out, echoing round the walls of the station. McCoy looked back down at the boy, his left hand was spasming, fingers opening and closing, eyes going everywhere. He coughed up a huge gobbet of dark blood. Chest was only just going up and down, breathing shallow. McCoy squatted, took hold of his hand.
‘You’re going to be okay, just hang on, no long now.’
The boy coughed again, more blood came up and ran down the side of his face onto the fresh snow. McCoy sat there holding his hand, telling him it was all going to be okay, knowing it wasn’t, wishing he was anywhere but there.
FOUR
He was sitting back on the bench by the Royston bay, smoking, when Murray turned up. Needed some time away from the blood and the uniforms bustling about and Wattie asking him questions every two seconds.
The ambulances had arrived first. The ambulance man had put his hand on his shoulder, told him they would take over. McCoy had tried to stand up but the boy’s fingers kept squeezing his. He knew it was a spasm but couldn’t let go, needed to feel he was some comfort for the boy. Ambulance man had eased his hand free. He stood there looking down at the boy until another one ushered him away.
Police cars had come next, then the vans with the uniforms in them, then the unmarked cars, then the lorries with the crash barriers. Now the place was bedlam, shouts, sirens, people crying and the tannoy still blaring out.
The line of uniforms that was blocking the entrance parted and a black Rover drove through the cordon and weaved its way through the maze of abandoned buses crowding the forecourt. Soon as it stopped a uniform scuttled over, opened the back door and Murray stepped out. Senior officers were around him in seconds, pointing over at the bodies, explaining what had happened. Murray listened for a while then held his hand up, silencing them. He pointed at the crowd gathered behind the rope cordon and sent one of them over there, barked orders at the others and they rushed off double-time towards the entrance.
McCoy watched as he strode over to where the bodies were, lifted the rope and went through. Uniforms and ambulance men stepped back, getting out his way. Wattie was standing there trying to look like he knew what he was doing. Even had his wee notebook out. Murray nodded a greeting at him, knelt down and carefully lifted the green sheet off the girl’s body. Although the boy’s body was surrounded by doctors and ambulance men, it didn’t stop him pushing them aside to have a look at him too. He asked Wattie something and he looked around, eyes finding McCoy, and he pointed over. Murray gave out some more instructions, sent Wattie scurrying off, and made his way across the forecourt. Snow was still falling but Murray had no coat, just the usual tweed jacket stretched tight over his shoulders, trilby stuck on his head. He was a big man, Murray, six-foot odds, ginger hair fading to grey, moustache on a ruddy face. Looked like a prop forward gone to fat, which he was. McCoy wasn’t sure why they got on; they had nothing in common as far as he could see. Maybe everyone else was just too scared of him to have a normal conversation.
‘You all right?’ he asked, coming in under the shelter, taking his trilby off and shaking it.
McCoy nodded. ‘I’m fine. Unlike those two.’
‘Right fucking mess,’ he said and sat down beside him. ‘Wattie said you came up here looking for the girl before anything happened. Didn’t tell him why. That right, is it?’
McCoy nodded.
‘How come?’ said Murray quietly, just the last remnants of his Borders accent remaining. He only had two speeds, Murray. Shouting, which meant he was annoyed, and talking quietly, which meant he was about to get annoyed.
McCoy sighed, knew he was in for it. ‘It was Nairn, Howie Nairn. That’s what the phone call was about, got me up to Barlinnie last night. Told me a girl was going to get killed today, wanted me to stop it.’
Murray was padding his jacket, looking for his pipe. Suddenly noticed two plain clothes had followed him over, were standing off to the side waiting. ‘What the fuck are you two doing? Standing there like spare pricks at a wedding. Fuck off and get this site properly secured, now!’
The two of them looked terrified, hurried off. Murray’d finally found his pipe, stuck it in his mouth, sat back on the bench and pointed over.
‘See that over there, McCoy? Those crashed buses, the blood, the bodies, the weans crying and the crowds of fucking gawpers trying to get past the barriers. That’s what’s known as a right royal shiteshow. A right royal shiteshow that I’m going to have to sort out. So why don’t you just start again and tell me what the fuck went on here and what the fuck it’s got to do with you.’
McCoy dropped his cigarette onto the ground, watched it fizzle out, started his story. ‘Howie Nairn got me up to Barlinnie last night, he’d got the warden to call the shop. So I get there and he tells me there is a girl called Lorna who works at Malmaison or Whitehall’s. No second name. Said she was going to get killed today. I thought he was playing games but I checked it and there is – was – a girl who worked at Malmaison, Lorna Skirving.’ He nodded over at the body. ‘Wasn’t at home this morning so we came here to meet her, except she didn’t come in on the Royston bus, so we missed her. Can’t have stayed at home last night. First thing we know that bloke’s standing there with a gun, and then she’s on the ground.’
‘And what’s she got to do with Nairn?’
McCoy shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘He wouldn’t say? Well, fancy that. Maybe you should have fucking asked then!’
‘I did . . .’ He started to protest, but Murray was having none of it.
‘Didn’t ask him hard enough, then, did you? Might have stopped this fucking disaster happening. And, by the way, how come that cunt Nairn is suddenly telling you all his secrets?’
‘Don’t ask me. Call came in to the station last night, so I went, thought it would be something about Garvie. I hardly even know him. He was Brody’s deal, no mine.’
Murray tapped the pipe stem off his top teeth, shook his head. ‘Nope. You’re not telling me something.’
‘Eh?’
‘Had to be a reason Nairn wanted to speak to you. What is it?’
McCoy looked at him, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What? You think I’m holding out on you, that it? That’s shite, Murray. Why would I do that?’
‘You tell me,’ he said evenly.
‘Fuck off, Murray, you’re way out of order.’
Murray’s face clouded over. ‘So are you, son. You remember who you’re talking to.’
‘Aye well, you too. You really think I’d fuck you about?’
Murray rubbed at the stubble coming through on his chin, shook his head. ‘No. But there’s a reason it was you he wa
nted to speak to. You might not know it, but he does.’
McCoy stood up and watched two uniforms push a row of photographers back behind a rope line. Ambulances were backing up to the bodies, doors open.
‘Where you going?’ asked Murray.
‘The boy still alive?’
‘Barely. If you can call it alive. Half his fucking head’s gone. Who is he? Nairn let you in on that one?’
McCoy ignored him. ‘He’s nobody. According to Wattie, he’s got nothing on him. No ID at all, no house keys, no wallet, no money, scars, tattoos. He’s the invisible fucking man. Gold crucifix round his neck. That’s it.’
Murray gave a half smile. ‘Well, we know one thing then. He’s one of your lot.’
McCoy ignored that too. ‘So what happens now?’
‘I walk back over there and try and get this mess sorted out. Try and get everything done and the place re-opened before the rush hour tonight. City centre’s at a fucking standstill already. Buses backed up all the way from here to fucking Paisley.’ He stood up. ‘And you, away you go to Barlinnie and find out what the fuck Nairn’s up to. And get some fucking answers this time. I mean it. He’s an accessory at least. Lean on the cunt.’
‘Here’s done already. The bloke shot the girl then shot himself. What is there to find out?’
‘What’s to find out is what this has got to do with that cunt Nairn. This isn’t bloody Chicago, we don’t have shootings in the bloody bus station. Find out what Nairn knows and what it’s got to do with him.’
McCoy sighed. Would have to try again later, no point when Murray was in this kind of mood.
‘I’m sick of telling you. Get up to fucking Barlinnie now!’
McCoy held his hand up in surrender and walked up towards the row of unmarked Vivas parked near the entrance.
‘And McCoy . . .’ He turned and Murray nodded over at Wattie, standing on the other side of the forecourt watching them. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’
FIVE
Wattie hadn’t said much since they’d got in the car. McCoy didn’t blame him; he didn’t feel like saying much either. Fuck of a first day on the job. Still, he hadn’t done too badly with the crowd at the bus station, did what he was told, didn’t panic. Rarer than you’d think.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
Wattie nodded; he didn’t look it though. His face was pale, tiny spots of blood across his cheek that he’d missed when they went to clean themselves up back at the shop. He was fiddling with his lighter again, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Wasn’t working.
‘Look, it’s not always like this. Fact it’s never like this. Could be months before you see another body, never mind another shooting.’
Wattie nodded again, didn’t say anything, just stared out the car window at the afternoon traffic on Riddrie Road. McCoy gave up. Maybe he was just a quiet bugger after all. They continued north through the city in relative silence. Suited him, only noise the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers fighting the sleet. The road to Barlinnie took them through Royston, then Provanmill. Long rows of dirty black tenements lined the way interrupted by empty sites full of mud and piles of old tiles and bricks, any metal or lead from the roofs long gone. Driving through the north of Glasgow, a place he’d known since he was a boy, was like driving through a different city now. All the landmarks were gone, couldn’t find his way any more. Garscube Road was gone, all that was left of Parliamentary Road was a few rows of tenements. Motorways and shitty high flats. The New Glasgow.
McCoy turned the steering wheel and his shirt cuff emerged from under his jacket. It was soaked in blood, cloth turned hard. Didn’t know if it was the boy’s or the girl’s. Didn’t matter much, he supposed. He was peering down into the footwell to see if he’d managed to get all the blood off his shoes when someone behind him sat on the horn. He sat up quickly, looked in the mirror. Ambulance. He held his hand up in apology, pulled over and it raced past them up the middle of the two lanes of traffic, lights and siren going full pelt.
Maybe he should have guessed then. Bad things did come in threes, after all. Then he wouldn’t have been surprised when they pulled into the prison car park and the same ambulance was sitting there, lights slowly revolving, back doors open.
‘What’s that doing here?’ asked Wattie.
McCoy shrugged, opened his door. ‘Only one way to find out.’
They slammed the car doors shut behind them and made a run for the entrance, splashing through the puddles on the cracked tarmac. McCoy leant on the buzzer, trying to stand in under the awning out of the rain. He held his card up to the window and the big metal door rumbled back slowly. Tommy Mullen was standing there.
‘What’s going on?’ asked McCoy, nodding at the ambulance.
Mullen looked surprised. ‘That no why you’re here? It’s your pal, Nairn. He’s been annoying somebody.’
They shook themselves off and followed Mullen along the corridor and up the stairs towards the wash block. Wattie wrinkled his nose, but McCoy was used to it. Barlinnie smelt the same as every other prison he’d ever been in. ‘Sweat, shit and spunk’, as Murray had memorably described it. Corridor got warmer the nearer they got to the showers, feel of moisture in the air. Mullen pushed the thick plastic door open.
‘After you.’
The floor of the showers was swimming in water, covering the cracked and broken ceramic tiles. Steam was so thick it was hard to see what was going on; took a minute or so for their eyes to adjust. Mullen pointed over to the last shower in a row of ten or so. There was no sprinkler head on it, just an open pipe gushing boiling water in a big arc.
‘Fucking thing’s kaput,’ said Mullen over the noise. ‘Cannae get it turned off. Fact he’s lying on the bloody drain’s no helping either. Didnae want to move him.’ McCoy nodded, still not sure what he was talking about. Mullen pointed into the mist. ‘He’s over there.’
Nothing for it, they splashed in. McCoy stupidly reminded of walking through the disinfectant footbath at the swimming baths, Wattie looking a bit peeved at the idea of getting his good suit wet. At least the water was warm. As they got closer two ambulance men emerged out the steam, dark stains seeping halfway up the legs of their grey flannel uniforms. They seemed to be standing over something. Stood aside to let them see. McCoy and Wattie sloshed their way towards them and had a look.
It never ceased to amaze McCoy how inventive men shut away with nothing to do could be. They became resourceful, turned their hands to making things out of nothing. Things like a murder weapon made out of a toothbrush, some insulation tape and a sharpened bit of glass. McCoy watched it spinning round in the water next to Nairn’s outstretched hand. Whoever made it had done a good job; Nairn’s throat was sliced right through, open sides of the wound moving in the current like a fish’s gills. Gash must have been six inches long, neatly bisecting the old scars on his neck. A red string of blood was emerging from it, spinning and turning like ink dropped into a glass of water. Nairn’s head was back, mouth and chin just breaking the surface. His mouth was full of blood that was turning black, starting to congeal.
McCoy was doing his breathing. Ten, nine, eight . . . trying to stop the dizziness, missed what Mullen was saying to him. Another couple of breaths, in through the nose out through the mouth just like the doctor said. ‘Think yourself calm. You are in control.’ It was working. He started to feel a bit less like he couldn’t get a breath, but he made sure he kept his eyes fixed a couple of feet above the body.
‘What’d you say?’ he asked.
‘You deaf? I told you,’ said Mullen, ‘somebody wasnae happy wi’ him.’
McCoy risked a look down. Wave of nausea, straight back up. ‘Not wrong there. When did you find him?’
‘Hour or so ago. B Wing landing came in for their shower and there he was.’
McCoy went to get his cigarettes out, realised he was never going to be able to light one in the damp atmosphere, stuffed them back in his pocket. Threes it was, right en
ough. A young girl shot dead, a boy just hanging on and Howie Nairn lying dead in a pool of water and blood.
One of the ambulance men was looking around. ‘Probably be here somewhere.’ He scanned the room, saw something floating by the far wall and waded over. ‘There it is.’ He fished in the water, picked something up, looked like a worn nub of soap. He held it up between his finger and his thumb, showed it to everyone.
‘His tongue. They cut it off.’
McCoy heard a retch and the splatter of sick hitting the water behind him. He turned and Wattie was bent over, hand up, trying to say sorry. McCoy was just happy it wasn’t him for a change. Wattie retched again, thin stream of vomit hitting the water. Ambulance man shook his head.
‘Great. That’s all I fucking need. Wandering around knee deep in water, blood and now fucking puke.’
McCoy felt a bit better, risked another look down at Nairn. He’d been one of those men Glasgow turns out all too often. Men in a permanent rage at the world and everyone in it. He’d been hitting out at everything since he was born and now, for once, for the first time maybe, he looked peaceful. He was naked, arms outstretched, red hair fanned out behind him. McCoy could just make out a tattoo through the water and the thick ginger fuzz covering his chest. A heart, blue scroll beneath it with a name in it.
‘Who’s Bobby?’ he asked.
‘His boyfriend,’ said Mullen. ‘Came to see him every fortnight, never missed.’
‘His boyfriend?’ said Wattie, wiping his mouth with a hanky. ‘You’re no telling me Howie Nairn was a poof?’
Mullen nodded. ‘Queer as a three-bob bit and didnae care who knew. Man with a reputation like his, nobody was going to pull him up for it, were they?’
‘What’s he doing here anyway?’ asked McCoy. ‘Thought he was in the Special Unit?’
‘He is. But they’ve nae showers over there. Complained to the governor, got allowed over here twice a week. Said he was being discriminated against.’
