Bloody January

by Alan Parks

  Cooper shook his head, looked amused. ‘Christ, if I’d known she was that good a gobble I’d have kept her on. I told you before, McCoy. She was a whore. End of. A druggy wee whore. Throw a fucking stick at the Green and you’ll hit twenty of them. Life goes on. I run a business, no a fucking rest home for junkie whores.’

  McCoy knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop himself. Kept picturing her at the hospital, the two of them in her room, laughing, dancing to the Rolling Stones like stupid teenagers. ‘Didn’t fucking care, did you? Knew me and her had something, you didn’t give a shit about her. About me.’

  ‘Fuck this,’ muttered Cooper.

  ‘You could have—’

  McCoy didn’t get to finish his sentence. Cooper was all over him, hands round his neck, pushing his head hard against the wall of the lane. He was in his face, spitting through clenched teeth.

  ‘Three fucking years of you crying and pishing the bed, everyone lining up to give the scaredy wee cunt a kicking. And me, I took care of them all. Kept you away from the nuns and Father fucking Brendan’s tickle time. I was the one the brothers beat to fuck; I was the one that got put in that fucking lock box for days at a time. No you. Was that no enough? And just for the fucking record, Janey only went with you for the drugs you brought.’

  ‘That’s no—’

  ‘Aye, it fucking is. Iris told me. So next month when the proper smack comes in it’s going to be run by me and Billy Chan because he’ll have Murray in his pocket and Naismith will be in Barlinnie and you’re going to make that happen.’ Cooper grabbed McCoy’s head, hit it off the wall behind him. ‘Right?’

  McCoy nodded, put his hand to the back of his head, felt blood. Cooper looked like he had in that room, taking a hammer to Jumbo on the floor. Gone somewhere else.

  ‘What?’ he shouted, knocking McCoy’s head off the wall again. ‘I didnae hear you! What?’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ he managed. Cooper pushed him back against the wall again, then let him go. McCoy slid down, ended up sitting in the snow.

  ‘I fucking saved you from getting your arse fucked and your head kicked in for years, McCoy. Don’t you ever fucking ask me what I’ve done for you!’

  Cooper stepped back, wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, turned and walked up the lane, stopped, punched the wall with his fist. Did it again. McCoy winced: he was hitting the wall as hard as he could. He pulled his fist back to do it a third time.

  ‘Stevie! Stop it!’

  Cooper turned, blinked at him, seemed to come to. He walked back, held out his hand and McCoy took it, like he always did. Cooper pulled him up. Storm seemed to have passed; he looked like his normal self again.

  Cooper spat in the snow, took out his fags. Looked up at the back of the townhouses.

  ‘Now, are you going to tell me what the fuck we’re doing here?’

  FORTY

  McCoy pushed the wooden gate open and he and Cooper walked up the garden path. Light was spilling out from the kitchen windows, illuminating the snow-covered lawn. McCoy wiped some of the frost from the window with his sleeve and they looked in. He tried the door handle. Unlocked. Lucky for once.

  They stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. Stood for a minute, just listening, trying to get their bearings. The house was almost as cold as it was outside. Seemed empty, unlived in. Cooper pointed to the light coming from the half-open door to the hallway. The hall floor was flooded, a good couple of inches of water. Easy to see where it had come from. Water was running down the stairs, spilling over the sides, dripping onto the floor below.

  They splashed through into the big front room, feet leaving watery footprints on the dusty floorboards. A grand piano covered in a thick stoor of dust and some furniture covered in white dustsheets. The walls were covered in animal heads. Elk, a zebra, even a lion. Glass eyes staring at them. Complicated arrangements of regimental shields and swords beside them, shining in the gloom.

  They stepped back into the hall and McCoy shouted as loud as he could. ‘Dunlop? You here?’

  His voice echoed in the empty house. Nothing. He tried again. ‘Dunlop? Elsa?’ More echoes.

  There was nothing on the first floor but a couple of empty rooms. Nothing on the second either but a mouse that skittered across the floorboards of the back bedroom, disappeared under the skirting.

  ‘Might be barking up the wrong tree here, McCoy,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Probably, but we should check the whole place. Come on.’

  They climbed the next set of stairs. The water was running down from the third-floor landing, through the railings and falling onto the stairs below. They splashed through it, kept heading up.

  ‘What the fuck is all this?’ said Cooper, waggling his foot to get some of the water off.

  ‘Probably a burst pipe, no heating in this bloody place,’ replied McCoy.

  One of the doors on the third-floor landing was closed. McCoy nodded at it, Cooper pushed it open and they went in.

  ‘Shite,’ said McCoy.

  The room was furnished properly this time, was even warm. Beyond piles of clothes, a four-poster bed dominated the middle of the room, white sheets on it stained with blood.

  Cooper moved in, looked at the bed and stepped back. ‘Sheets are still wet with it.’

  There was a pile of scud mags on the bedside table, Jezebel lying on the top, open at the picture of Lorna Skirving. McCoy picked it up. Knew then he was in the right place.

  ‘Dunlop!’ he shouted. ‘Glasgow Police. You here?’

  There was a half bottle of Haig on the sideboard. Cooper twisted the top off and took a swig. Handed it over. McCoy took a swig, put the bottle down.

  ‘What the fuck happened in here?’ asked Cooper, looking at the blood dripping from the bed onto the floor.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said McCoy. ‘Nothing good.’

  ‘You got anything on you?’ Cooper asked.

  McCoy shook his head. Cooper pulled a knife out from his back pocket, handed it to him. ‘Take this.’

  ‘What about you?’ McCoy asked.

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘One more floor to go,’ McCoy said.

  ‘May as well get on with it.’ Cooper nodded at the door. ‘Let’s go.’

  They got to the top of the last set of stairs. Three doors on the landing.

  Cooper pointed at one. ‘I’ll take this one. You check the other.’

  McCoy nodded, headed for it as Cooper walked the other way down the corridor. He pushed the door open and stepped in. Felt the whoosh of something heavy coming towards him and pain exploded in his face. Noise of someone running as he fell to the floor, another wave of hot pain and then everything was dark.

  *

  ‘McCoy! McCoy!’

  He could hear him, but he couldn’t see him. Just a fuzzy shape blocking the light. He blinked a few times and Cooper’s face came into focus.

  ‘You okay?’

  McCoy nodded, put his hand up to his face, felt the blood. ‘Fuck!’ He held onto a set of drawers, managed to hoist himself up. His nose felt wobbly, definitely broken, could feel a big gash across his right cheek as well.

  ‘Am I okay?’ he asked, looking at Cooper.

  ‘You’ll live.’ Cooper pulled his T-shirt over his head, bundled it up and held it to McCoy’s forehead. Pressed hard. Ignored McCoy’s yelps of pain.

  ‘You see him?’ he asked.

  McCoy shook his head, wincing as he did. ‘Heard him running away.’

  Cooper took one of McCoy’s hands and held it against the T-shirt. ‘Keep that held tight on the cut.’

  ‘How come you know first aid all of a sudden?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘You kidding me?’

  McCoy looked at Cooper. At his bare torso marked with the scars from slashes and knife wounds.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Keep the pressure up, press it hard,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ll check next door.’

  He knew he shouldn
’t, but as soon as Cooper disappeared he pulled the T-shirt away and had a look at it. It was red now, soaked in blood. He felt a rush of dizziness, quickly held it back against the wound. He didn’t even know if it was Teddy Dunlop who had hit him, just knew whoever it was had hit him hard. Really hard.

  McCoy tried to fish his cigarettes out his pocket with his free hand. Wasn’t doing very well. He pulled the T-shirt away and groaned when it stuck to his hair, blood already congealing into a syrupy mess. He’d just managed to light up when he thought he heard something. He froze. Listened.

  ‘Cooper?’ he said, realised he was whispering. Said it again, louder this time. ‘Cooper?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Cooper?’

  Nothing.

  Then he heard it. More of a whisper than anything else. ‘McCoy?’

  ‘Cooper? You there?’

  A thick splash of blood arced up the floral wallpaper. It was still wet, glistening and dripping. McCoy pressed himself against the doorframe, heart going.

  ‘Cooper?’ he whispered. ‘Cooper?’

  No reply.

  He tried again. ‘Stevie? You there?’

  He edged himself along the wall and into the room. Made himself look down. Cooper was lying in a growing pool of blood, dark red seeping across the pale bedroom carpet.

  McCoy knelt down beside him.

  ‘Stevie, it’s me. What happened? You okay?’

  He wasn’t. He’d a huge wound running from his shoulder all the way down his back. The sides of it were gaping open, glimpses of bone, yellow fatty tissue.

  Cooper opened his eyes. Grimaced. ‘Cunt had a sword.’

  ‘It’s okay, don’t move. You’ll be okay,’ said McCoy.

  ‘Was hiding behind the door, got me soon as I stepped in.’

  ‘Christ! Just be quiet, keep your strength. Okay?’

  Cooper nodded. Grimaced again. ‘It’s fucking sore.’

  McCoy pulled the sheets off the bed, tried to wrap them round Cooper’s body, stop the blood pouring out the wound. Wasn’t doing much good, was like trying to stop the tide. He tried to keep talking, wasn’t sure Cooper could even hear him. He was barely conscious, eyes flickering every so often. The blood was getting everywhere, warm and sticky, covering Cooper, covering McCoy. He was doing okay, dizzy but still functioning, just needed not to pass out, not now. He’d done the best he could with the sheets, stuffed them into the wound, blood seemed to be stopping a bit. Wasn’t enough, though. Cooper needed a hospital and fast.

  He stood up. ‘I’ll no be long, just need to go downstairs and phone an ambulance, you’ll be fine for five minutes, eh?’ Wasn’t much response, was talking more to himself than anyone else. He turned to go and Cooper’s arm shot out, grabbed at his ankle. McCoy jumped.

  ‘Don’t let that cunt get away,’ Cooper managed to get out between shallow breaths.

  The grip on his ankle loosened and McCoy bolted downstairs, heading for the ground floor. He found the phone in the kitchen and called the shop. He thought it was going to ring out, then Wattie finally answered.

  ‘Central. Watson speaking.’

  ‘Wattie! Listen to me. Get to Park Circus as quick as you can, bring anyone in the station. Number 12!’

  ‘What? That you, McCoy? What’s up?

  ‘Just fucking do it. Call an ambulance as well!’

  ‘Okay. Murray’s here and Thomson, I think. I’ll bring them. You okay? What’s going on?’

  ‘Just get here, Wattie. Now! The ambulance!’

  He’d just put the phone back in the cradle, cutting off another ‘What’s happening?’ from Wattie, when he heard a whir, the sound of a turntable spinning, arm going down onto a scratchy record, and suddenly there was music. He stepped back, wasn’t sure why, as it boomed down the stairs. He was so surprised he just stood there and listened. The Animals’ ‘House of the Rising Sun’. The last plaintive ‘And God, I know I’m one’ finished and the needle skidded across the empty grooves, lifted and dropped again at the beginning of the disc. The song started up again.

  ‘There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun.’

  McCoy did something he never thought he’d do again. He crossed himself. And then he started to climb the stairs.

  FORTY-ONE

  McCoy was spooked, scared of the creaking of the house, the wind rattling the windows, the squeaks of the floorboards under his feet. He tried to tell himself to stay calm as he climbed, but he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. The record finished, whirred and the song started up again. It was definitely coming from the top floor, getting louder as he climbed.

  ‘Oh Mother tell your children, not to do what I have done.’

  McCoy stood on the top-floor landing. He’d come this far. Had to keep going. The open door at the end of the landing was the only place Teddy Dunlop could have gone. Interconnecting doors between the three rooms meant they had missed him, let him get away. He moved forward, music getting louder the nearer he got to the room. He stood outside, got himself ready, then pushed the door wide open.

  ‘Dunlop, you in here?’ he shouted.

  Nothing. He stepped in, wary of him jumping out again, but the room was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked round. The record player was on the sideboard by the window, record spinning round. Music was totally distorted now, the volume turned up too high for the wee speaker. He walked over, broken glass crunching under his feet, and pulled the needle off. The music stopped instantly, a sudden feeling of a pressing silence, an absence of sound.

  The room was sparsely furnished – a sideboard, a rumpled single bed. No Dunlop. Part of him was relieved. He could go back downstairs now, sit with Cooper and wait for Wattie and the ambulance to arrive. He’d tried. Dunlop must have got past them somehow, made it out the house.

  He stepped out the room, knelt down to wash the blood off his hands in the water on the floor and that’s when he saw it. A slit of dim light in the panelling at the far end of the landing. He could pretend he hadn’t seen it. Walk away. No one would know. But he would. He stood up.

  It was a door, made to look like another piece of panelling. He pushed and it opened into a huge bathroom, white tiles everywhere. Two overhead fluorescents fizzed and flashed, barely penetrating the fog of steam. Water was pouring over the sides of an old freestanding bath, both taps going full pelt. He leant over to turn them off and jumped back in fright.

  Elsa was in the bath. Nude. Face serene under the pinkish water, dead blue eyes staring up at him. He turned the taps off, noise sank from a gushing to a steady drip into the water. He breathed deeply, made himself take another look. Blood was clouding up from her mouth and from between her legs. Steady red flow coming from the two gaping slash marks across her neck.

  He looked down at her, found himself saying a prayer for her under his breath. No atheists in a foxhole, they say.

  As soon as he stepped out of the bathroom he felt a cold breeze across his wet skin. Took him a second to work out it was coming from a door in the back of the landing. He walked over, breeze getting stronger, and opened it.

  The door opened onto a box room empty but for a pile of old sheets and a box of plates. The slanted roof had a window held up by an iron pole. Wind must have been blowing in all night, snow was lying in a semi-circular pile on the wooden floor beneath it. McCoy pushed the window open, hauled himself up through the gap and looked out.

  The townhouse roof sloped down to the gutter, then the long drop to the street below. McCoy swayed. Behind him the roof ran up a good twenty feet towards a group of sooty terracotta chimneys silhouetted against the night sky. There were footprints in the snow leading up to them. He got himself up onto the roof and started making his way gingerly up the slope. Fucked if he was going to stop now. He started upright then went down on his hands and knees, afraid of slipping and falling the hundred feet to the street below. He made it to the chimneystacks and looked around.

  He edged his way round, keeping his back t
o the chimneys, arms splayed out, gripping on. Teddy Dunlop was sitting on the other side, back against the brick base, bloody sword resting across his knees. He nodded at him as if he’d just seen him in his local.

  ‘McCoy, wasn’t it?’

  McCoy looked at him warily, then sat down, didn’t seem to be anything else he could do. He was freezing, soaked clothes making it even colder than it was. At least the chimneys were warm – next door must have all the fires going. He pressed his back against them, tried to stop shivering.

  ‘Nice here,’ Dunlop said, looking out over the view of the city below. ‘Peaceful.’ Turned to McCoy. ‘How’s the nose?’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I thought it was one of my father’s goons come to tidy up then take me away for a little rest cure. Electroshock therapy. Heard of it?’

  McCoy shook his head.

  ‘Nasty business.’ Dunlop held out a pack of cigarettes; there was blood on them, but McCoy didn’t care. He took one, he needed it. He took a sideways look at Dunlop as he held out a Zippo to light it. He didn’t look good. He’d lost weight; collar of his shirt was too big for his neck. The suit he’d on was as wet as McCoy’s, half with water, half with blood.

  Dunlop tapped the sword with his finger. ‘My great-grandfather’s apparently. Was on the wall downstairs. Took it with him to Africa to kill some Boers. I don’t doubt he succeeded.’

  ‘What’s been going on here?’ McCoy asked evenly. ‘You want to tell me about Elsa downstairs?’

  He sighed, looked out over the view, flicked his cigarette end out into the darkness. ‘Elsa? What is there to tell?’

  ‘Well she’s lying dead in a bathtub for a start.’

  He sighed. ‘Does it matter? It’s done now.’

  ‘Yes, it fucking matters! She was a nineteen-year-old girl with all her life ahead of her and because of you she’s lying dead, bleeding from fucking everywhere.’

  Dunlop looked at him, smiled. ‘So you’re my confessor, are you? Not quite what I expected, I have to say. Elsa is dead because Elsa stopped being fun,’ he said.

  ‘Fun? Jesus. What’s that supposed to mean?’