Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid

by Rob Johnson

  Of course, the dog issue wouldn’t form part of his explanation to Harry, but he felt he had to work the thing through in his head to convince himself he wasn’t losing his touch. So what was he going to say to Harry? The guy didn’t need any more reason to despise him, and this latest little incident would be more than enough to tip him over the edge completely. This wasn’t the kind of business where you could just walk in and offer an apology and a letter of resignation. Shit, it wasn’t even the kind of business where you’d just get fired. Harry had a reputation to maintain, and part of that reputation included doing some pretty unpleasant stuff to people who’d pissed him off.

  He remembered one occasion when Harry’s driver was a few minutes late picking him up from some club in Soho, which made him late for an important appointment, and Harry had the poor sod’s little finger taken off with a pair of secateurs. ‘Ten bloody minutes I had to wait,’ Harry had said at the time. ‘Maybe you’ll remember that in future when you wanna count to ten and can only get up to nine.’

  One thing was certain. It wouldn’t be just his little finger Harry would cut off once he knew the bitch had got away with his money. But what was the wimpy guy doing on his own in the hotel foyer? Surely Harry wouldn’t have let him go before he had the rest of the cash?

  ‘Mind if I have a sit?’

  MacFarland barely registered that someone was talking to him but looked up to see an old man with a tanned and cracked face eyeing the vacant space on the bench beside him. His long straggling beard was almost entirely white except for the dark brown stain of his moustache, and he wore a rainbow coloured woollen hat and a filthy tweed overcoat tied at the waist with string.

  ‘Suit yirself, pal,’ said MacFarland. ‘Free bloody country.’

  He clocked the unmistakable stink of cheap wine and stale tobacco as the old man flopped down next to him with a groan. MacFarland edged away from him slightly and tried even harder to control his rasping breath so as not to inhale too deeply.

  ‘Not sure you’re right about that, old boy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Eh?’ MacFarland was shocked into taking notice by the old man’s voice and turned towards him. The middle-class, educated tones just didn’t match up with the tramplike appearance.

  ‘What you were saying about this being a free country. Not if my own experience is anything to go by. Of course, it might be totally different in Scotland but, sad to relate, I have only rarely ventured further north than the delightful county of Durham.’ He pulled a half empty bottle of red wine from an inside pocket of his overcoat. ‘I take it from your accent that it is from Scotland that you yourself originally hail?’

  Glesga,’ said MacFarland, wondering whether the guy really was English or from some other planet altogether.

  ‘Ah, Glasgow. European City of Culture 1990 and home to the Old Firm of Celtic and Rangers football clubs,’ the tramp said and took a modest sip from the wine bottle. ‘And to which of these two fine exponents of the beautiful game do you yourself pledge your allegiance?’

  MacFarland took a moment to work out exactly what he was being asked. ‘Celtic,’ he said, surprised to find himself engaging at all with this pissed-up old scadge. It wasn’t that long ago that he and his mates used to patrol the streets of his hometown on the lookout for a loser exactly like this to kick seven sorts of shit out of. ‘Ye ken a bit about fitba then?’

  The old man smiled. ‘You may find this hard to believe, looking at me now, but many years ago I actually had a trial for Oldham Athletic.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Not quite good enough though apparently. Story of my life in a way.’ He took a long drink from the wine bottle and then offered it to MacFarland.

  He held up the palm of his bandaged hand. ‘No for me, pal.’

  ‘Been in the wars, I see.’

  MacFarland glanced down at the bandage and flexed his fingers. ‘Aye, ye could say that. But it’s ma bloody foot that’s killin’ me right now.’

  The old man watched as he bent to massage it. ‘Like me to take a look at it, dear boy?’ he said and then laughed at MacFarland’s bewildered expression. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not a foot fetishist. I used to be a doctor at one time.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  The tramp laughed again. ‘Only goes to show you can’t judge a book by its cover, eh?’

  It was true that MacFarland had had enough trouble picturing this scruffy old wino running out onto the pitch at Oldham Athletic in full kit, but the whole white coat and stethoscope thing? Nah.

  ‘And in answer to your unspoken question, I was struck off in my prime, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘The demon drink, I’m afraid,’ said the tramp and flicked the neck of the wine bottle with his fingernail. ‘Of course, I wasn’t the only one who was somewhat over-fond of the sauce. I just happened to get caught being squiffy on the job a few times too many. That and the fact that most of the top bods couldn’t bear the sight of me. Truth is, I never have got on very well with authority figures.’

  MacFarland snorted. ‘Huh. Tell me about it.’

  ‘Spot of bother with your… employers, eh?’

  ‘Ye could say that, aye.’

  The old man finished off the wine and dropped the empty bottle into a waste bin at his end of the bench before pulling a full one from inside his overcoat. ‘Care to share the gory details?’

  ‘Some other time mebbe,’ said MacFarland, wincing from the fire which shot up his leg as he levered himself up into a standing position.

  ‘Something I said, dear boy?’

  ‘Nae, yir fine. Have tae be on ma way is all.’

  ‘The aforementioned employer, eh?’

  MacFarland’s eyes narrowed as he watched the tramp take a corkscrew from another pocket in his overcoat and open the fresh bottle of wine. There was something about this guy that bothered him. Not the stories about football or all the doctor stuff. They were harmless enough even if they were – as he suspected – a load of bollocks. No, it was more a feeling that he seemed a little too… over friendly. And why had he turned up when he did? Why hadn’t he gone to one of the other vacant benches? Hell, he thought, maybe the old bugger just liked to chat and he happened to be the nearest victim. Anyway, he’d got more important things to worry about right now, like telling Harry Vincent how he’d cocked up yet again.

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to take a look at that foot?’ said the tramp when MacFarland tried to put weight on it and gasped with the pain.

  ‘It’ll be fine. Just a wee bruise, I expect.’

  The old man raised the bottle as if he were proposing a toast. ‘Oh well. Here’s to a complete and speedy recovery. Nice to meet you, Mr… Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘MacFarland. Jimmy.’

  ‘Julian Bracewell, at your service.’

  He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank deeply. MacFarland turned and half hopped, half limped his way across the street to the hotel. He hoisted himself up the steps, relying heavily on the handrail for support, and was heading for the revolving door when he suddenly changed direction and made for the more conventional door instead. The moment he took hold of the handle, he thought he heard someone shout, ‘And don’t forget to give my regards to Harry.’

  He spun round, but the tramp had vanished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When Delia got back to the room, Harry was still sitting at the desk, munching on a panini. He swivelled his chair to face him and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, his expression negating any need to put the question into words.

  Delia shrugged. ‘Sorry, Harry. He was already on his way down in the lift, and by the time I got down the stairs, he’d disappeared.’

  ‘Oh for f—’ Harry slammed his fist down onto the desk with such force that everything on it jumped, including the gun. ‘So where’s MacFarland?’

  Delia’s shrug was even more emphatic. ‘Didn’t see him.’

  Harry h
eaved himself out of the chair and stomped over to the window. ‘I ‘ave to say, I’m not undisappointed, Delia,’ he said, looking down at the street below. ‘I mean, I expect the Scotch git and all the other muppets to fuck up, but not you. You, I thought I could rely on.’

  ‘What can I say, Harry? The little sod was just too quick for me. I’m not as young—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Harry with a curt wave of the hand. ‘He’s not that important anyway. But if Porridge Boy loses the tart as well, I’m twenty-five grand down the toilet.’

  He returned his attention to scouring the street for any sign of MacFarland and the woman, and Delia wandered over to the room service trolley and picked up one of the two remaining pints of lager. He took a sip and then removed the aluminium lid from one of the plates. He eyed the panini, chips and onion rings with suspicion and tried a chip. As he’d suspected, it was stone cold.

  ‘’Ang on a minute. What the…?’

  At the sound of Harry’s voice, Delia replaced the lid over the food and looked up. Harry had his right cheek pressed against the window and was wiping his condensed breath from the glass with his sleeve. He seemed to be straining to get a better view of something which was on the edge of his range of vision.

  ‘He’s only sat on a bench ‘avin’ a good old chat with some bloody tramp,’ said Harry, his voice distorted by the pressure of the glass on the side of his mouth.

  ‘Who? Mac?’ Delia joined Harry at the window and pushed his own face against the glass, scanning the area outside until he spotted the bench in question.

  * * *

  ‘Where the fuck ’ave you been?’ said Harry when MacFarland hobbled into the room. ‘More to the point, where’s the tart with my twenty-five grand?’

  MacFarland hopped to the nearest bed and slumped, his face contorted in pain as he massaged his foot. ‘She got away. Sorry, boss.’

  ‘What’s the matter with your foot?’ said Delia.

  ‘Stupid bitch ran over it.’

  ‘Never mind his bloody foot. Just tell me she didn’t get away with my money.’

  ‘Believe me, boss. I only wish I could.’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ said Harry and slapped his palm hard against his forehead. ‘So you wanna tell me how a big tough Glaswegian hardman like you managed to get shafted by some bloody tart – and an unarmed bloody tart at that?’

  MacFarland opened his mouth to speak, but Harry motioned him to silence. ‘And while you’re at it, you might want to put some serious thought into givin’ me one good reason why I shouldn’t separate you from your precious meat and two veg with a fucking chainsaw.’

  By the time Harry finished the sentence, his voice had increased in volume to such an extent that he was screaming like a jet engine on full thrust. His face had turned a vivid shade of crimson, and every visible vein seemed to have more than doubled in size.

  MacFarland swallowed. ‘Thing is, boss,’ he said, ‘it wasnae just her. The wee bawbag was there too. I couldnae figure out why ye’d let him go.’

  Delia couldn’t remember ever having seen Harry flustered before – or even mildly embarrassed – so his reaction on this occasion was one to be treasured in the memory. He transformed the beginnings of a smirk into a cough as Harry said, ‘Never mind that. Just… just get on with it.’

  Taking a deep breath, MacFarland explained how he’d gone with the woman to her car and about the tricks she’d used to try and escape. When they’d got to the car, he’d kept his gun on her while she’d opened the glove compartment, which is where she’d said the money was. The next thing he knew, the dog tried to take a chunk out of him and—

  ‘Dog? What dog?’

  ‘She had a dog in the back o’ the car. Big bastard too. Teeth like ye’ve never seen.’ He went on to describe in some detail how the dog had launched itself at him and the woman had used the distraction to grab a pistol from the glove box. By then, the dog had MacFarland’s gun arm clamped between its massive jaws, so the weapon was useless. With his free hand he’d knocked the dog unconscious with an uppercut and, at exactly the same time, lashed out with his foot and sent the woman’s gun flying. But just when he’d thought he’d got the situation back under control, he’d felt a heavy blow to the back of his head. ‘I must’ve been out for a coupla seconds because when I came to, the bastards were driving off. That’s when they ran over ma bloody foot.’

  As if to reinforce the point, he bent down to give it a rub, although Delia suspected this was simply a sham to avoid Harry’s piercing stare. There was a lengthy pause, the only sound coming from Harry cracking his knuckles, one… by one… by one…

  ‘So ‘ow d’you know it was our bloke that jumped yer?’ Harry said at last.

  ‘Sorry, boss?’

  ‘Well, you say you got whacked from behind. So ‘ow come you knew who it was?’

  Delia noticed MacFarland become even more attentive to his latest injury. Christ, Harry might be a loud-mouthed, uneducated slob, but he wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t fail to see that the guy was lying his arse off. A dangerous game to play when you’re up against the likes of Harry Vincent, he thought. A very dangerous game indeed.

  ‘Er… I saw him in the car. Aye. When they drove off like,’ MacFarland blurted out eventually.

  With slow deliberation, Harry picked up the gun from the desk and tapped the tip of the barrel against his front teeth. ‘Okay, so what about this dog? This hound of the fucking Baskervilles.’

  ‘Aye, big bastard it was.’

  ‘And it ‘ad yer by the arm, you say.’

  ‘Tae right, boss. Hurt like buggery.’ He moved his foot-massaging hand and gingerly laid the palm onto his forearm.

  Harry nodded towards the arm. ‘Roll it up then, ‘Aggis.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘The sleeve. I wanna ‘ave a butchers at this nasty dog bite of yours. I mean, you can’t be too careful with dog bites. Tet’nus. Gangrene. Rabies even. You might need medical attention.’ Harry’s face twisted into a leering grin, and his eyes were those of a predator that knew it had its prey trapped and totally at its mercy. ‘You see how much I care about yer.’

  ‘Thing is, I dinnae think it actually broke the skin ‘cos I—’

  Harry’s grin vanished, and he whipped the gun round to point it at MacFarland’s forehead. ‘Roll – up – your – fucking – sleeve.’

  MacFarland stole an imploring glance at Delia, but there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable.

  ‘Whassa matter? You want Delia to do it for yer?’

  MacFarland’s hand slid down his arm towards the button on his shirt cuff. ‘Ye know anyone called Julian Bracewell?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’ Harry’s expression instantly changed to that of prey rather than predator, and all trace of colour flooded from his cheeks.

  ‘I think that was the name anyways,’ said MacFarland, who seemed to be making very little progress unbuttoning his sleeve.

  ‘Julian Bracewell?’

  ‘Aye. He said tae give ye his regards.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now. I’d sat down on a wee bench outside tae rest ma foot for a minute, and this soap dodgin’ auld wino comes up and…’

  His voice tailed away as Harry got to his feet and dropped the gun onto the desk before slowly making his way over to the window. MacFarland gave up all pretence at fiddling with his shirt button and seemed to have a sudden flash of inspiration.

  ‘Hey, wait a wee second,’ he said. ‘Julian Bracewell. I thought the name was familiar. But I thought he was deid.’

  ‘Well he’s either a fucking ghost or I was sadly misinformed about ‘is very timely demise.’ Harry had his back to them and his voice sounded muffled. ‘Either way, it seems as if our Mr Bracewell‘s come back to haunt me, and if that’s the case, we could well find ourselves in some seriously deep shit in the very near future.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  She lay on her back on the rear seat of the Peugeot, her legs wide apar
t, writhing and squirming and occasionally letting out a soft moan of pleasure.

  ‘At least someone seems happy,’ said Sandra, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

  Trevor screwed his head round to see that Milly was indeed exhibiting every physical manifestation of a dog who was beside herself with ecstasy. She’d treated them both to an impressive display of acrobatics when they’d first returned to the car, but by the time they’d reached the outskirts of the city, her unrestrained joy had given way to a rather less energetic demonstration of contented bliss. They were on the road again, which meant that the reunion was not a temporary one. More than that, they were on their way to some new destination which would no doubt be abundant with fresh sights and smells and, with a bit of luck, a mouthwatering array of ground-level snacks.

  Soon after they’d made their escape, Sandra had quizzed Trevor about how he’d managed to get away from Harry, and he’d told her the whole story, adding that he’d been surprised the Delia guy hadn’t caught up with him before the revolving door incident.

  He’d asked her about the cigarette packets, and it turned out he’d been right that she’d opened one of them while he was having a pee at the side of the road, but that didn’t explain where she’d got the replacement pack from.

  ‘Like I told Harry,’ she’d said. ‘I quit smoking. Six months, one week and four days ago to be precise. Never really thought I’d hack it, so I always made sure I had some with me. Still do. Silk Cut blue label. Not quite the same as Harry’s purple of course but close enough.’