Bobby March Will Live Forever

by Alan Parks

  Was still too early for the shebeen to be in full swing. Pubs were still open, no need to buy Iris’s overpriced drink as yet. The living room was empty, record player in the corner quiet for once. Was strange to see the place in the daylight and while he was sober. Normally if he was here it was dark and it was because he was drunk. It looked like an ordinary living room: three-piece suite with antimacassars draped over the back, some dining chairs along the wall. There was a picture of a green lady above the fireplace and a view of Loch Lomond above the couch. Only thing giving the room’s real purpose away was the ten or so ashtrays and twenty or so pint glasses lined up on the table.

  ‘Come on in the kitchen, I’m stocktaking,’ she said, walking through.

  The kitchen was Iris’s domain. No one got in here unless she let them, least of all punters. Normally one of Cooper’s heavy boys would be sitting on a chair in the doorway to make sure no one got out of order, but it was too early for him as well. Usually turned up about nine. Last time McCoy had been here Jumbo was filling in, the usual guy having got into an argument with some bloke from Carantyne and a Stanley knife.

  Crates of beer and whisky were piled everywhere. Hardly any room to move. Pulley hanging from the ceiling draped with bedsheets and towels. A clue to the other service the shebeen offered. Hidden behind an unsteady wall of beer crates was a press bed, picture of a wee girl in a frame on the drawers beside it, and a Sacred Heart on the wall. Bleeding and sorrowful. No doubt with good reason, if poor Jesus had to watch the goings-on in the shebeen.

  Iris sat on the bed and McCoy sat down on a pile of Red Hackle boxes – only the cheapest of gut rot for Iris’s customers.

  Iris lit up a cigarette and started doing her make-up in a wee hand mirror.

  ‘How’s business?’ McCoy asked amiably.

  Iris shrugged. ‘Okay. Been better, been worse.’ She was outlining her mouth in bright red lipstick while she was talking. ‘People always find the money for drink, even if it has to come out the rent money or their weans’ mouths.’

  She looked round the mirror at him. Looked amused. ‘This what you’re here for, is it, McCoy? A wee chat about my future prospects?’

  McCoy took the picture of Laura Murray out his wallet and handed it over. Iris barely looked at it and handed it back.

  ‘Laura Murray. She’s staying somewhere around here and she shouldn’t be. Her mum and dad want her back home, she’s only fifteen.’

  Iris looked unimpressed. ‘What’s the big deal? I was only thirteen when I ran away from home.’

  McCoy looked round the crowded wee kitchen, at the damp marks on the ceiling, the wallpaper that had seen better days, the dirty window.

  ‘Not sure that was the best decision you ever made, was it?’ he said. Immediately wished he hadn’t. Was meant to sound funny, just came out sounding cruel.

  Iris’s face hardened. ‘Fuck you, McCoy. You try staying in a house where your da comes knocking on your bedroom door every night after your maw’s gone to sleep and see how you like it.’

  McCoy held the picture up. ‘The girl,’ he said. ‘Need to know, Iris.’

  ‘And what makes you think I know anything about her?’ she asked.

  ‘Because we all know bugger-all happens around here without you knowing about it,’ said McCoy. ‘And she was a pal of Donny MacRae’s. Sure that toerag’s been up here a few times.’

  ‘That dead toerag, you mean,’ she said. ‘Pity, he was a bloody good customer.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ said McCoy. ‘Nothing passes you by, so I’m damn sure some young posh girl knocking about Hotspur Street hasn’t either. I don’t have time for this, Iris. I know you think I’m a useless bastard, but I’m still a polis. So answer me.’

  Iris managed to look McCoy up and down while still looking down her nose at him. Not an easy feat.

  ‘Polis? Don’t bloody kid yourself. No to me, you’re no. You’re just another drunk banging on my door wanting a drink at one o’clock on a Saturday morning.’

  Drew a blue stripe across her eyelid, ramped up the venom. ‘You found that wee girl yet?’ Didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Thought not. Bloody useless, the lot of you. She could be lying dead and you’re up here asking me about some bloody teenager. You should be ashamed of yourself, should be out there—’

  ‘Iris, so help me I’ll—’

  She went back to applying her make-up. ‘Donny MacRae used to bring her up here, flashing his wee posh bird around, her thinking she was drinking with Al Capone. Bloody comical, the two of them.’

  ‘Where’s she staying?’ asked McCoy.

  She shrugged. ‘No idea, but if it’s around here somewhere I could find out.’ She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

  McCoy took a fiver out his wallet, shook his head. ‘Mercenary as ever. You get her a message, Iris. Tell her to meet me in the Golden Egg at four o’clock tomorrow night. If she’s no there, I’m going to take it personally and two big uniforms will be chapping on your door at half nine asking to see your licence to sell intoxicating liquor. Understood?’

  She nodded her head, gave him a dirty look and tucked the fiver under the mattress. ‘You always did have a nasty streak, McCoy. Better watch it doesn’t get you in trouble one day.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Iris. I’ll keep it in mind.’ He stood up. ‘You seen Cooper?’

  She laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? No one has, not for weeks. I only deal with Billy Weir now.’

  McCoy was surprised. ‘Billy? How come? Is Cooper away somewhere, then?’ he asked.

  Iris put her make-up brush down, smirked at him, triumph on her face. ‘Well, well, so you don’t know everything after all, do you, smart arse? Some best pal you are. Away and visit him, see for yourself.’

  She stood up. ‘Now bugger off. I’ve got stocktaking to finish.’

  ELEVEN

  The cab stopped by the stairs at the bottom of Hillhead Street and McCoy got out, paid the man, crossed the road and turned into Hamilton Park Avenue, started counting the numbers along. Stopped and looked up at number 21. Let out a low whistle. Cooper must be making even more than he thought. The house was very big and very ugly. It stood in its own garden, trees each side, big bay windows on the ground floor, two more storeys above that, the River Kelvin rolling along in the park next door.

  He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t look like the kind of place Cooper would buy in a million years. Normally guys like him stayed where they felt safe, in their home patch, no matter how much money they had. Thousands and thousands in the bank and still staying in a wee council house in Springburn. Then he remembered. The American girlfriend was still around. Maybe she had persuaded him to become a West Ender. Only one way to find out. He walked up the path and pressed the bell.

  Waited for a minute, could hear the river flowing, then the door opened and Billy Weir was standing there, denim shirt, denim jeans and grey socks.

  ‘Harry! How you doing?’ He held out his hand to shake, big smile on his face, seemed very pleased to see him for some reason. ‘C’mon in. Leave your shoes by the door.’

  ‘What?’ asked McCoy. ‘You kidding me on?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Billy, rolling his eyes. ‘Ellie. Strict rule.’

  McCoy shook his head, took his shoes off, glad to see he had matching socks on, and followed Billy into the house. Had a look around and tried to remember it was Stevie Cooper he had come to see. The hallway was wall to wall white carpet, pile so deep his feet were disappearing in it. Two big vases of white lilies were sitting on a table, huge silver-framed mirror behind them. The walls were half dark-wooden panels and half tartan wallpaper. On the far wall there was a big framed poster for an old Jimmy Cagney film. Angels with Dirty Faces.

  McCoy nodded at it. ‘That supposed to be funny?’ he asked.

  ‘She got it for his birthday,’ said Billy. ‘Cost a bloody fortune, apparently. The kitchen’s this way,’ he said, disappearing down the steps.

  The kitchen co
uld have given Phyllis Gilroy’s a run for its money. It was massive. Even had French windows opening out into a walled garden. There was a round white table in the middle, no legs, just a central stalk, orange kitchen units along one wall and some sort of big, red iron stove thing on the other. The floor was old flagstones, pleasantly cool beneath his stocking feet.

  Billy gestured to the table. ‘Take a seat. Want a can?’

  McCoy nodded, still trying to take it all in.

  ‘Sorry about the shoe thing, would drive you bloody mad,’ said Billy, opening the fridge and taking out two cans of Tennent’s. ‘Jumbo forgot one day and she went fucking mental.’

  He sat down, put a can in front of McCoy, nodded out at the garden. ‘Speaking of which, take a look out there.’

  McCoy stood up, walked over to the French doors. Right at the bottom of the garden, a hulking figure was digging weeds out a floral border with a hoe, dumping them in a wicker basket.

  ‘No way . . .’ said McCoy. Couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘Is that Jumbo?’

  ‘Aye, that’s him,’ said Billy, shaking his head. ‘Gone mad for the gardening, can hardly get him out the bloody place.’

  McCoy sat down, opened his can, took a swig and looked over at Billy. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on here?’ he said. ‘I feel like I’m dreaming.’

  Billy grinned. ‘Some place, isn’t it? Only got finished last week. Ellie and some decorator bloke have been at it for months. Might be a waste of time, though. Her and Cooper had a big fight and she fucked off back to New York yesterday.’

  ‘Wasn’t really talking about the house,’ said McCoy. ‘Iris tells me she only sees you now, not Cooper. That right?’

  Billy nodded, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘So what’s Cooper up to? Been a while since I’ve seen him, right enough.’

  ‘You know . . .’ said Billy. ‘This and that.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. What?’

  Billy didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

  McCoy was starting to get annoyed. ‘Billy, what the fuck’s going on? Where is he?’

  ‘He’s upstairs,’ said Billy.

  McCoy stood up. Billy grabbed his arm. ‘Harry . . .’

  McCoy pulled it away. ‘What’s up with you, Billy?’

  Billy shook his head. Looked down at the table.

  McCoy left him there, headed back to the front of the house and the stairs. Started climbing. Shouting up as he did, ‘Stevie? You up here?’

  No reply. He reached the landing, tried again. ‘Stevie! It’s McCoy.’

  Still nothing. There were four or five doors on the landing. He pushed one open. An empty room with a set of ladders, stripped walls and rolls of wallpaper on the floor. Tried the next one.

  ‘Stevie!’ he shouted.

  Was the bathroom, all avocado suite and taps with chunky clear handles. He was starting to feel uneasy. Something really wasn’t right. He pushed the next door open.

  ‘Ste—’

  Stopped halfway through and stood there in the doorway, staring down at Stevie Cooper. He was naked, sprawled across the bed, dead to the world, wooden cigar box with a blackened spoon, length of rubber tubing and a syringe in it lying on the covers beside him.

  He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Didn’t want to. Heard footsteps behind him and Billy was at his shoulder.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ asked McCoy.

  ‘Month or so,’ said Billy.

  McCoy turned away from Cooper, looked back at Billy. ‘Christ, Billy,’ he said. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Billy. ‘I wanted to, but he told me he’d kill me if I did.’

  ‘Is he okay?’ asked McCoy.

  Billy nodded. ‘Aye, he’s fine, just out of it.’

  McCoy stepped forward and looked down at him. Cooper had changed, changed a lot. Had lost weight, muscle tone, left arm dotted with wee puncture marks and a big bruise over the inside of his elbow. His eyes were closed, head back, the scars from his past battles looked faded and pale against his deathly white skin. Even had the beginnings of a beard; blond stubble on his chin.

  McCoy looked away, almost felt like crying. Was the first time he’d ever seen Cooper look vulnerable. Since they were kids Cooper had always been the strong one, the tough one, hard enough to take anyone or anything on. Not now. He moved to the bed, shook Cooper’s arm.

  ‘Stevie, it’s Harry. Can you hear me?’

  Shook his arm again, harder. Nothing.

  ‘The mornings,’ said Billy. ‘He’s better in the mornings. Come and see him then.’

  McCoy nodded. Couldn’t be any worse. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said.

  Billy nodded. ‘I know, I know.’

  Scale of it hit him. He turned angrily. ‘What the fuck, Billy?’

  Billy looked half sad, half guilty. ‘I know, I know. Started off a couple of times a week, him and Ellie, then it was most nights, then she tried to get him to stop but you know Stevie. No one can tell him anything. He just kept saying his back was agony, that smack was the only thing that took away the pain.’

  Now it made more sense. His back. The back that he always said was fine. McCoy knew it was far from healed but hadn’t realised quite how bad it was. He’d been attacked six months or so ago, someone took a sword to it. Minor muscle damage was all Cooper had told him. Real story was obviously different.

  McCoy sat down on one of the wee armchairs by the bed and tried to think. Billy was hovering over him, looking like a kid that had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Away and get us a whisky, eh?’ he said, just to get rid of him.

  Billy nodded, hurried off, glad to have something to do.

  McCoy sat back in the chair and tried to think. Couldn’t take his eyes off Cooper, how different he looked. He moaned and rolled over and McCoy could see the scar on his back properly now. It was a couple of feet long, three or four inches wide. The scar he said didn’t hurt, that he said was fine. The scar Cooper had got from a maniac with a sword while he was trying to defend him.

  McCoy had relied on Cooper all his life: he’d been there since he was a wee boy, scaring everyone off, keeping him safe. Taking the brunt of anything that threatened them. And now he looked like he couldn’t defend himself against a kitten.

  Looked like it was his turn to step up now. He lit up, watched the curtains blow in the breeze from the open window and tried to think. Cooper had worked hard to take over the Northside. Planned and schemed and fought. Finally had what he wanted. A business, respect and, going by the look of the house, money – a lot of money. And if he wasn’t careful he just might be about to lose it all. If he was in this state most of the time, word was going to get out. It had to. And if it started to be common knowledge, then Cooper was toast. If it got to Ronnie Naismith or any of those guys and they smelt weakness, they would pounce.

  Goodbye to the Northside. Goodbye to Cooper, too.

  Billy reappeared and handed him a tumbler half full of whisky. He took it. Knocked half back.

  ‘Right,’ said McCoy. ‘This is what we’re going to do.’ He pointed to the bed. ‘First of all, get that bloody box off the bed and bin it. I mean it.’

  Billy looked wary. ‘He’ll go nut job.’

  ‘Aye well, we’ll worry about that in the morning,’ said McCoy. ‘The girlfriend definitely gone for good?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Think so. Seemed serious this time. Told him he was a useless junkie and called a cab for the airport.’

  ‘Right. In that case, get Iris round here tomorrow. Tell her she’s moving in for a couple of weeks.’

  Billy looked horrified. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Iris here?’

  McCoy was having none of it. ‘No, I’m not, Billy. I’m not joking about any of this. You understand?’

  Billy looked resigned, shook his head.

  ‘First thing tomorrow you need to do something,’ said McCoy.

/>   ‘What?’ asked Billy, looking puzzled. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Something that people are going to notice. And you need to make sure and tell everyone it was Cooper’s idea. Make sure everyone knows he’s still planning things, doing things. Need you to buy something, do someone over . . . just do something that makes people think he’s still in charge.’

  Billy nodded.

  ‘If he wakes up in the morning and starts calling the odds, call Dr Purdie. Get him to knock him out with something, right?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Billy.

  ‘State he’s in, I can’t see him being able to do much damage, but it’s Cooper. You never know. Maybe get Jumbo up here when Purdie arrives. If you can tear him away from his bloody flowers, that is.’

  Billy nodded again. Smiled. Looked relieved that things were changing.

  McCoy moved closer to him, deliberately got right in his face. Billy’s smile faded. ‘And, Billy, when this is fixed, you and I are going to have words. You should never have let him get in this state. And I’m not happy about it. Get me?’

  ‘Things just got out of hand, Harry, it all happened quick. And you know what Cooper’s like when he’s on one. He won’t listen.’

  ‘I don’t care, Billy. You’re his number two. Supposed to be his right-hand bloody man. Supposed to be looking out for him. You better start acting like it or you won’t be much longer. Get me? I’ll see to it.’

  McCoy pushed him out the way and made for the stairs.

  *

  Ten minutes later he was in the Pewter Pot sitting at a table at the back, pint and a whisky in front of him, thinking about what he’d just seen. Cooper wasn’t Cooper any more. Not the Cooper he knew. That Cooper wouldn’t be living in a fancy house with a fancy girlfriend and a bloody smack habit.

  He sipped his pint. He needed to buy some time for Cooper to recover before anyone knew what the fuck was going on. Had a horrible feeling it might be too late already. He knew. Billy knew. Jumbo knew, and seemed like Iris had a good idea. Tomorrow Dr Purdie would know and who knew who the fuck else had been in that house. Some one-night stand of Billy’s? Some friend of Ellie’s who decided to tell the juicy tale to her mates in a crowded bar. Glasgow was a small place and Cooper was big news. If the story was out, they had even less time than he thought.