Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘No sign of Marko Jarvis?’ He asked DC Stephenson.

  She shook her head, her weapon still at the ready in case one of the jokers decided to leg it. ‘Must’ve been in the car we lost, boss.’

  His nose wrinkled in disappointment and he lifted one of the bars of brown. Never mind, he thought, it was still a result.

  As they were told to lie down and clasp their hands on the back of their heads, each of the eight men had one single thought.

  Maw would be spitting blood.

  ‘It was that bastard McClymont, I fuckin know it!’

  Maw Jarvis was raging at Jerry and Scrapper. ‘Near six million quid’s worth of gear gone and your brother banged up.’

  Neither brother ventured a word. They’d seen their mother in this mood before. No matter what they said, she’d jump down their throat, or worse. They waited until she asked them a direct question. They didn’t wait long.

  ‘McClymont grassed us up, the bastard. So, what are we going to do about it?’

  Jerry cleared his throat. ‘No much we can do, Maw. We’ve no got his contacts yet, neither we have. I’m workin on it but we cannae fire him in for anything cos we don’t know what he’s got going.’

  Maw glared at her eldest. ‘Work on it harder.’

  Jerry gave her a thin smile. She knew she was giving him permission to get tough and with her eldest, God knew where that would lead, given his nature, but she didn’t care. She wanted McClymont hobbled, somehow. The big bastard had cost her money.

  Scrapper leaned forward eagerly. ‘Right, Maw, I’ll get the boys out and…’

  ‘You’ll dae fuck all, Scrapper. This is payback for what you did to that boy the other night, I know it.’

  ‘Ach, Maw…’

  Her dark eyes flashed danger signals and he clammed up. ‘Don’t “ach, Maw” me. Your temper and fondness for sticking shite up your nose has just cost me a fortune – and your brother in the jail. So I think you’ll be keepin your “Ach, Maws” to yourself.’ Her face was like granite as she glared at her youngest and he shrivelled in his chair. She turned to Jerry again. ‘Find me something, Jerry. I want to squeeze that big bastard’s pockets till his balls burst.’ Jerry nodded and stood. ‘And find Marko, for fuck’s sake!’

  Another night, another visit from Bobby Newman. Davie was beginning to think he was using him as an excuse to get out of the house and get some peace from the baby. Or maybe Connie just wanted him out from under her feet. Whatever, Davie knew they were both genuinely concerned about him and, even though he’d never admit it, he was grateful for the company. Bobby had arrived breathless with the news of the two drug raids earlier that day. Davie immediately guessed that Rab had steered the info to some friendly copper. The discussion naturally moved to the murder of Dickie Himes. Bobby knew him a little – sometimes Davie wondered if Bobby knew everyone in Glasgow – and said he didn’t deserve to go that way. Davie trusted Bobby implicitly, he was perhaps the only other human being he had absolute faith in, so he told him about Rab’s desire to hit back hard.

  ‘It’s going to get out of control really fast,’ said Bobby.

  ‘Tried telling Rab that, but you know what he’s like,’ said Davie, taking a sip of his coffee. It was good. When he made it for himself he either made it too strong or too weak, but Bobby had got it just right. Vari could do that, too.

  Bobby said, ‘Maw Jarvis is a brammer. But her boy – Jerry?’ He blew out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s a piece of work, so he is. They call him The Butcher, you know that? And it’s no cos he punts sausages.’ Davie nodded. He’d heard of Jerry Jarvis, but had never met him. ‘He’s a vicious sod when he gets going. He’s a speccy, skinny-arsed wee bastard, but he’s no to be taken lightly. Rab takes them on, he’d better have a bucket of Germoline in his first aid box.’

  The doorbell rang and they sat in silence for a moment, both knowing that the only regular visitors to the flat were sitting in the room. Davie would have ignored it, but Bobby got up to answer it, eager to see who was visiting his pal other than him. The dog, lying in what was becoming his accustomed place in front of the gas fire, looked up, ears cocked, eyes alert. Davie heard voices then Bobby came in, his expression one of bemusement and excitement. A figure loomed behind him in a long, waterproof coat flecked with snow and a hat pulled down low over his face. Davie knew who the newcomer was even before he took the hat off and flattened the collar of the coat. Bobby was grinning like a schoolboy now. Starstruck, thought Davie, with some disappointment. He expected his boyhood pal to be cooler. The dog rose and moved to greet the newcomer, whose face lit up when he saw the animal.

  ‘Hey, boy,’ said Michael Lassiter as he held one hand out for the dog to sniff before getting down on one knee and giving his head a rough rub with both hands. The dog loved it. Lassiter looked up at Davie. ‘What’s his name?’

  When Davie didn’t answer, Bobby said, ‘Not got one yet.’

  Lassiter was still rubbing the dog’s head. ‘Dog needs a name. I love dogs, got three back home. I miss them.’

  ‘Davie says one will present itself when it’s ready.’

  Lassiter looked surprised. ‘That right? Never pegged you for that kind of guy.’

  Davie asked, ‘What kind of guy?’

  ‘A fatalist. Leaving things to destiny.’

  Davie said nothing while he waited for the actor to explain his presence. Lassiter gave the dog a final pat then held out a hand to Bobby. ‘Hi, I’m Michael Lassiter.’

  Bobby shook his hand. ‘Thought you looked familiar,’ he said making a belated attempt at Glasgow nonchalance. He said, ‘Davie, it’s Michael Lassiter.’

  Davie nodded.

  ‘You never told me you knew Michael Lassiter.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Davie, flatly.

  Bobby faced the visitor. ‘Mister Lassiter, you make a point of knocking on random doors in Glasgow’s east end?’

  Lassiter smiled. ‘Davie and I met the other day. He’s being discreet.’

  Davie asked, ‘What you doing here?’

  Lassiter had moved into the room and stood in front of the gas fire. He was suddenly nervous, like a student at his first audition. ‘That fella you were with, the one with the permanent sniffle?’

  ‘Kid Snot?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘That’s the guy – he really should see a specialist about that. Good man would clear that problem right up. Anyway – I told him I wanted to speak to you, he brought me here.’

  Davie made a mental note to have a conversation with the Kid, then realised that Rab probably put him up to it, because he smelled a quick buck and didn’t trust Davie to contact Lassiter. He’d been right, too – Davie’d had no intentions of meeting up with the actor.

  ‘So here I am,’ said Lassiter. It was followed by an uneasy silence during which Davie saw it dawn on Lassiter that he may have stepped over a line. He came from a world where he was given anything he wanted and it never occurred to him that someone might not want to see him.

  ‘You want a cup of coffee or anything?’ Bobby asked, knowing Davie would never think of being a host. ‘We don’t have anything stronger, Davie not being a drinker.’ It sounded like an apology.

  ‘Coffee’s good,’ said Lassiter. ‘It’s kinda nippy out there.’

  ‘Ah, that’s nothing,’ said Bobby, ‘when this snow clears we’re in for a freeze, I hear. Temperature’s gonnae drop well into the minuses. Brass monkeys’ll no be doing much shagging, I’m afraid.’ Lassiter smiled. ‘I’ll get you a coffee – milk? Sugar?’

  ‘You got cream?’

  ‘Sorry, even the milk’s semi-skimmed.’

  ‘Black’ll be fine.’

  ‘One black coffee coming up. Take a seat, make yourself com­fortable. He’ll never offer, so don’t wait. You two can talk among yourselves.’ Bobby gave Davie a reproving glare and crossed the hallway to the kitchen.

  ‘Nice guy,’ said Lassiter. Davie didn’t reply. ‘Reminds me of Bob Redford.’ Davie re
mained silent, but it had been said before about Bobby. Lassiter asked, ‘You mind if I take my coat off?’

  Davie nodded and the actor peeled off the high quality waterproof, then sat down in the nearest armchair, the coat laid over his lap. Davie had meant he did mind but Lassiter had taken it as permission. Davie let it go. He heard Bobby rattling about in the kitchen, opening cupboard doors, no doubt looking for biscuits. He knew Vari would have them in there somewhere.

  ‘I need your help, Mister McCall,’ said Lassiter.

  ‘I don’t store the medicine, I just deliver it sometimes.’

  ‘No, not that. Look…’ Lassiter leaned forward. ‘I’m here to make a movie. It doesn’t begin shooting for a month or so but I’m here early, under the radar.’ He paused, waiting for Davie to speak. Davie looked at him, his face blank. Lassiter swallowed. ‘I play this American hood who was born in Glasgow who comes back to find his long-lost brother. Kinda like Get Carter in a way. You seen Get Carter?’ Davie nodded. Encouraged, Lassiter became more animated. ‘So, I’ve got time before shooting starts and I wanted to get a feel for the city, that’s why I’m here early. I thought maybe you could show me around.’

  ‘There are tour buses.’

  ‘I don’t want to see the tourist traps. And I also thought you’d show me a few things about the city’s underworld. I’d pay you.’

  ‘What makes you think I know about the city’s underworld?’

  Lassiter smiled. ‘You delivered my medicine. You’re no pharmacist. And I asked about you. You’re like a legend here. Something to do with a fight on Duke’s Road?’

  ‘It was Duke Street,’ said Bobby, bustling in with a tray carrying three more coffees and a plate with a handful of tea biscuits. ‘Sorry about the biscuit selection, Davie may be a legend but he’s no much of a shopper.’

  ‘So the fight was real, it’s not just a story?’

  ‘It was real. Just up the road there.’

  ‘The guy had shot a cop, right?’

  ‘Aye, just downstairs. Davie went after him, caught him, battered fuck out of him. Then the cops came and put a bullet in the boy.’

  Lassiter spoke to Bobby but his eyes were on Davie. Davie kept his face immobile, even though Bobby’s words had brought back memories of that night. He felt the heat in the air, heard the thunder as it crackled and rumbled above the city, saw Clem Boyle’s face, hate cutting deep lines around his eyes and mouth as he raised a gun in Davie’s direction.

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ said Lassiter. ‘Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but we’re kinda similar. Same build, same colouring, same blue eyes. I thought I could maybe pick your brains, find out what makes a Glasgow guy like you tick? What do you say?’

  ‘No,’ said Davie without hesitation.

  ‘Can I ask why not?’

  ‘I don’t want to be studied.’

  ‘I don’t want to psychoanalyse you! I just want to soak up a bit of your reality and maybe transfer it to the picture. And I’ll pay.’

  ‘No,’ said Davie. Lassiter gave Bobby a look, as if he was a court of appeal. Bobby shrugged, telling him he couldn’t help.

  Lassiter reached for his coffee, sat back and stared at it for a moment. ‘I was told you’d co-operate.’

  Rab, thought Davie. ‘You were told wrong.’

  Lassiter stared at the liquid as if it could tell him what to say next. Davie saw in his face that he was unused to people saying no to him. Davie knew something about him – father a star from the 1960s, now big on TV, his brother a top director, Lassiter himself one of Hollywood’s most bankable stars. All his life he’d probably pointed at what he wanted and everyone had bent over backwards to get it for him. Disappointment was not something he often experienced. Be a new experience for him, then, Davie thought. Character building.

  ‘Okay,’ Lassiter said, laying the mug down on the coffee table and standing up. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to reach me.’ He began to pull on the coat again. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Bobby, is it?’

  Bobby glanced at the mug, saw Lassiter hadn’t touched a drop, but said, ‘My pleasure. How will you get back?’

  ‘I’ll grab a cab.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  Lassiter smiled. ‘Sure, even movie stars can use cabs.’

  ‘I mean, won’t you be recognised?’

  Lassiter held his hat up in one hand. ‘That’s what the disguise is for.’

  With a final nod towards Davie, Lassiter followed Bobby out. Davie heard the door open, more words being exchanged and then closing again. When Bobby returned he was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Michael Lassiter,’ he said, ‘I mean, what the fuck? Wait till I tell Connie, she’ll wet herself.’

  MONDAY

  They called him Marko, a childhood nickname that stuck, but Mark Jarvis didn’t mind because he thought it gave him a taste of the exotic. His dark skin, dark eyes and handsome face did not yet bear the signs of abuse to which he had already subjected his body, so that meant he could pass himself off as anything but a Glasgow ned. Until he opened his mouth, and then there was no mistaking his background.

  His voice was the loudest thing in the café on Maryhill Road, which was the way it usually was when he was holding court. He had two mates with him and they were listening with rapt attention as he talked of his adventures that morning. They knew better than not to listen when Marko held the floor. He wasn’t as unpredictable as Scrapper, but he did have Maw Jarvis’s temper. There was no-one else in the place now, the two boys who had been in earlier had swiftly knocked back what was left of their coffee, picked up their rolls and sausage and left as soon as they saw Marko and his lads enter. The owner retreated to the small kitchen, trying hard not to listen to what was being said at the table by the wall. He would never breathe a word of what he overheard, he knew the score, but he still preferred not to hear it. So he’d turned the transistor radio up a bit and let Radio 2 drown the words out.

  Marko was telling his mates he’d never had any intention of coming back to the city after the Liverpool run. There was a lassie in East Kilbride he’d been shagging for two months and he’d told her he’d call in on the way back that Sunday. She was, he said, always up for it. It was just as well he’d felt the need, because he would’ve been hoovered up with the rest of the lads when the drug squad hit them. Anyway, he’d spent the night with her and was heading out of the town, working his way round the various roundabouts that dotted the routes back to Glasgow when he was stopped.

  ‘So fuckin Polo Mint City, right?’ he said. ‘You know what it’s like, you get round one of they bastards and there’s another one up ahead. So I’m toodlin along there, feelin well satisfied, know what I’m sayin? Listenin to Todd Rundgren on the CD player, no having a fuckin scooby what’s happened back home, when I looks in the rear-view and there’s this fuckin jam sandwich bombin up my backside wi the disco lights goin. I’m tellin you, nearly crapped my load right there, but what was I gonnae do? Make a break for it? They fuckers can drive, you know? And I’m in some shit piece of tin cos Maw doesn’t want me to draw any attention.’

  He paused to take a final sip of his coffee and a draw at his fag before he stood up. One of his mates rose with him and said, ‘So what did you do, Marko?’

  ‘What the fuck could I do? I pulled over. These two cops came up to the side window and one of them asked me to get into the back of their motor. I says, “What’s the trouble, Constable?” – innocent as fuck, you know? He says, “You were clocked doing 60mph back there. Did you know it’s a 50mph limit on the Kingsway?” So, I gives him a wide-eyed look and says, “No, Constable, I’m not from East Kilbride and I really was not aware.”’

  Marko was at the counter now, cash in hand, his pals at his heels. ‘Anyway, I goes into their motor and he’s talking to me but I’m watching his mate, walking round my motor, checking the tyres and stuff. So, there I am with my, “yes, constable, no, constable, three bags full, constable,” and all the while my a
rse is poppin buttons cos I’ve got a fuckin sawn-off and a Beretta in the boot and this bloke’s sniffin around like one of they drug mutts. Luckily I’d made sure there was new tyres on that motor before I went down south, so he didnae find nothing and he didnae ask to see the spare, which was a thought that hit me like a super-strength laxative, know what I’m sayin? They let me go with a ticket and I was drivin out of there – under the speed limit, cos they was behind me all the way practically to Busby – and I was thinkin that, see if they’d just asked to open the boot, they’d’ve been fuckin promoted! I mean, they’d’ve been made, man.’

  He passed a fiver to the café owner, who was still looking nervous. Far as Marko was concerned, he should’ve got the rolls and coffees for free, but Maw insisted they paid up. Jarvises always pay their way, she said. Marko told him to keep the change.

  ‘This gink on a motorbike roared past while they were dealing wi me,’ he said, turning away from the counter. ‘Shoulda seen their faces, cos he musta been goin a hunner miles an hour. But they were busy wi me.’

  One of his pals asked, ‘You told your maw you got pulled over?’

  Marko shook his head. ‘No yet, man – she’ll have me flayed. I was supposed to come straight back to Glasgow wi the rest of the boys, no go a wee detour to Polo Mint City for some afternoon delight. You know Maw – you follow her instructions to the letter.’

  ‘She’ll be glad you wurnae lifted, though, right?’

  ‘Aye, but still.’

  They were outside now, on the street. A motorbike was parked in front of Marko’s own car and something sparked in his mind. ‘I’m no lookin forward to tellin her I was away getting wee Marko a seeing to and left the gear wi the others, you know? There’ll be questions asked.’

  They each murmured their assent, knowing the kind of questions Maw Jarvis would pose and the way they would be posed. Marko stared at the bike, remembering the one that had roared past him in East Kilbride. He recalled the echo of the high-powered engine staying with him as he was dismissed by the police. The spark in his mind caught alight and he knew he was in trouble.