Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  ‘What’s up, pal?’ A hand on his shoulder. It was Ayrshire Larry. A friend. A mate. Scratchy’s pal. He was kneeling beside him, perched on the walkway. Scratchy looked down. Saw the water flowing beneath him.

  Heard the screams…

  ‘Scratchy needs to go,’ he said. ‘Scratchy not safe.’

  ‘Wait till morning, friend,’ said Larry.

  Scratchy shook his head. ‘Scratchy needs to go. Back to land.’

  He saw concern in Ayrshire Larry’s face. They had shared skippers in the past, Scratchy had been glad to see him under the bridge. But he couldn’t take the water. Not safe near water.

  ‘C’mon then, we’ll go to the church,’ said Larry. ‘No water there. You’ll be safe there.’

  Scratchy didn’t look down as he and Larry descended from the precarious position under the bridge. If he didn’t look at it, it couldn’t get him. As soon as he hit solid ground he shuffled away at speed, trying to put distance between him and the river, between him and his memories.

  THURSDAY

  Knight watched Donovan as they drove from Stewart Street to Barlinnie. Knight had been hitting the streets on his own, looking for the homeless man from the alley, and he’d not had much sleep. But Donovan looked like shit. His skin was pasty, his eyes red. Knight recalled as kids how he and his pals would shade the backs of pennies with pencil and then press them over their eyes, leaving black circles. He saw the same thing on Donovan. He looked even more unkempt. Sure, he’d shaved but he’d missed bits, for bristles stuck out above his collar.

  ‘Jesus, Frankie boy,’ he said, ‘you look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.’ Knight thought he’d appreciate the horsey reference, given he was a follower of the sport of kings. Too much of a devotee, he’d heard. But, hey, everyone had their vices, and Knight was not one to point the finger. Unless there was a profit in it.

  Donovan’s eyes didn’t leave the road, but his fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. ‘Not sleeping.’

  ‘Things on your mind?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  The corners of Knight’s mouth turned down as he shrugged slightly. If Frankie boy didn’t want to talk about it, then it was fine with him.

  He already knew, anyway.

  Davie had given further views on fight scenes, Lassiter taking more notes. They were alone, Mannie and Coco having gone shopping. There was a silence for a moment, then Lassiter said, ‘Let me ask you something.’

  As if you’ve not been asking me something for three days, Davie thought.

  ‘What’s it like, being a man like you?’

  Davie’s face could have been carved from stone as he returned Lassiter’s gaze. He knew a question like this would come, it was one of the reasons he’d been unwilling to embark on this relationship. He was uncomfortable enough talking about what he did, even in an abstract sense, but he knew the actor would not stop there, could not stop there. He wanted to know what made a man like Davie tick. But Davie didn’t want to know. He was too afraid of what he’d find.

  Lassiter decided to keep talking. ‘Okay, I know you’re always aware of your surroundings. I’ve seen you, checking what’s around. You know what’s to the left of you and what’s to the right, what’s behind. The first night we met, you were standing against that wall, near the door. Now I know why. Even now, look at you…’

  Davie resisted the urge to look around. He already knew what Lassiter was going to say.

  ‘You’ve taken the one chair in the corner of the room. You’re not sitting beside the window, you can see all the doors. You never relax, always on edge. But you can’t be like that every minute of every day, can you? So, what I’m asking is this – what’s the real Davie McCall like, the one behind all this?’ He waved his hand up and down in Davie’s direction. ‘Come on, Davie. I know you’re not a great talker, so just give me one word that you think describes the real you. One word – the first one that comes into your head.’

  Davie kept himself very still, fearful that any movement would betray his discomfort. His mind was turning the question over. Finally, only one word came to mind, but he would never share it.

  Lassiter smiled. It was a knowing smile, one that was unsurprised by Davie’s lack of response. ‘I’ll tell you, then. I’ll tell you what I think. I think the one word that describes you is lonely.’

  Davie felt something flinch inside him. Lassiter either saw some­thing or sensed it, for he smiled again, a broader smile this time. ‘I knew it. I’m right, aren’t I? I told you before, I know people. I know you, Davie McCall, I mean I really know you and that’s the essence I want to capture in this picture.’

  Davie’s mind filled with images, faces, voices. Unwanted memories that were never far from the surface.

  Vari, touching his face tenderly, her voice low with sadness.

  You’re not here.

  His father, his words being carried away by the wind.

  You can’t protect your women, can you?

  Audrey, dying in front of him, her throat open and streaming blood, her eyes accusing.

  You could have saved me.

  And Joe’s voice, soft, kindly, sad.

  Your world is not her world.

  You could hurt her.

  Lassiter kept talking. ‘The idea of a man alone, struggling with his nature. A man who has good in him, but finds his life makes him do bad. Does that resonate with you?’

  Resonate. An actor’s word. Davie didn’t answer again. He couldn’t. The voices from his past were mixed together in his head now. He knew Lassiter was right. He was a boozed-up, drugged-up, sexed-­up pretty boy from LaLaLand, but he was no fool. Davie realised then that the actor had been studying him and even in just a handful of meetings, he’d already got his measure. Mostly, he didn’t like that. But there was a part, down deep, that was glad someone understood him, even a little.

  ‘You know why I know so much about you, Davie? Because we’re alike, you and me, not just physically.’ The grin was sheepish this time. ‘I know, what the hell does a hard man from Glasgow have in common with a milque toast from the coast, right? But like you, no-one really gets me. They see this,’ this time he waved his hand in an up and down motion in his own direction, ‘and they think they know me. I’m rich, I’m privileged, my dad gave me every­thing. But here’s the thing – I worked for everything I’ve got. Sure, my dad’s money bought me an education, but he never once got me a part. Everything I did, I earned. I studied, I learned, I auditioned. If I thought even for a nanosecond that my dad had pulled strings, then I walked. I’ve turned my back on great projects, good parts, just because I suspected they were being offered as a favour for my old man, or as a way to get to him. I exist because he’s my father, but I am what I am because of me – no-one else. There’s part of him in me, but the rest is all me, baby.’

  He paused and stood up, began to walk around the room. Davie had seen this during their meetings. Lassiter liked to walk and talk while he thought. He was warming up to his subject and Davie was fascinated, even though he didn’t want to be. The words resonated more than Lassiter would ever know.

  ‘Then there’s the stuff the tabloids like,’ Lassiter said. ‘They love the drugs and the girls, fills their pages. I’m a bad boy and I play it to the hilt. They think they know me, but they don’t. They think that’s me – a spoiled brat who never heard the word no. And I enjoy playing that part. But that’s what it is, a part. It’s not me, not really, fun though it is. But that’s all because of the old man, too. He’s one of the world’s genuine good men, you know that? I know he made his name playing tough guys, bad guys even, anti-heroes. But the reality is, he’s a goddamn saint. Been married to the same woman for forty years, you know that? Never stepped over the line. That’s not me. He’s not me. I’m not him. I’ve got his blood, I’ve got his genes, his DNA, but that’s where it ends. He’s not me. I’m not him.’

  Lassiter filled the pause with an embarrassed smile. �
�You heard the album Who’s Next? The Who? Know the song “Behind Blue Eyes”?’

  Davie nodded. He knew the song, knew where Lassiter was going.

  ‘I’m gonna get the rights, use it in the picture. I think it’ll be my guy’s theme song. The bad guy behind blue eyes that no-one really knows.’ He leaned forward. ‘But we know him, don’t we, Davie? You and me. We know him.’

  Yeah, thought Davie, we know him.

  His name was Patrick Fowler and he had something to tell them. But he was a crook, so information didn’t come free.

  They were in a small room in Barlinnie reserved for interviews with lawyers or police officers. Fowler was in C Hall, the remand wing, and Donovan and Knight knew there was a lot of loose information flying around the cells. Guys came in, sometimes wanted to talk about what they’d done, establish their credentials, as it were. Or they talked about what was going on outside the prison walls.

  They already knew Fowler was due to appear on an assault charge.

  ‘Didnae dae it,’ he had assured them, but neither of the cops believed there was a miscarriage of justice pending because Fowler was a vicious little scroat.

  ‘So, what have you got to tell us?’ Knight asked.

  Fowler drew on a thin roll-up and squinted at them through the smoke. ‘Need you to know that this doesn’t come easy, you know? I mean, I wouldnae be talkin here if I didnae think what they boys did to that lad was bang out of order.’

  Knight grinned. ‘Aye, you’re a public-minded citizen, Patrick. So you don’t want anything in return?’

  ‘Didnae say that, Mister Knight. I mean, quid pro quo and aw that…’

  ‘Quid pro quo?’ Knight nudged Donovan in the arm. ‘Classical scholar here, DS Donovan.’

  ‘Or he’s seen Silence of the Lambs once or twice, DI Knight.’

  ‘Oh, aye! That right, Patrick? You fancy yourself as a Hannibal Lecter? Don’t let him near the nice Chianti, for God’s sake, DS Donovan.’

  Fowler’s eyes flicked from one to the other across the scarred wooden table. There was no confusion there, just a weariness with their patter. ‘Guys, if I want a double act I’ll watch Morecambe and Wise. You want to hear what I’ve got to say or no? No skin off my nose if you don’t.’

  ‘But it is, Patrick. Cos you want some kind of deal in return. You’re facing a hefty sentence for banging that boy over the bonce.’

  ‘Allegedly, Mister Knight, allegedly. No been heard in a court of law yet. My brief says I’ve got a good chance of walking free.’

  ‘Patrick, you’ve as much chance of walking out of that court a free man as I have of shagging Elizabeth Hurley. So, let’s cut the shite here, eh? Tell us what you know and we’ll mention to the PF that you’ve been helpful. Best we can do. No promises.’

  Fowler took a drag on his cigarette and considered Knight’s words. He’d been hoping for better, both cops could tell that, but the bird in the hand principle applied here. ‘Okay,’ he said, stubbing the butt out in the small tin ashtray on the tabletop. ‘So I was in the dog boxes with these two boys, okay? And they was talking about how they’d stuck this lad. Behind that club down the town, the Corvus?’

  ‘You asking us, or telling us, Patrick?’ Knight said.

  ‘Telling you. They said they did it, Mister Knight, heard them clear as a bell.’

  Donovan leaned forward. ‘And it’s taken you three days to come forward.’

  ‘Wrestlin with my conscience, so I was, Mister Donovan. It’s no easy turnin grass, you know? But what they did was bang out of order. Bang out of order.’

  Donovan leaned back and gave Knight a look that told him he didn’t believe a word of it. But he saw Knight’s expression and knew that he was not about to look this gift horse in the kisser.

  They stayed in the room after Fowler was taken back to C Hall. Knight lit up a cigarillo and paced the small space like a caged tiger. Donovan was tired just watching him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jimmy, will you sit down?’

  ‘We’ve got the wee bastards, Frankie boy. We’ve got them.’

  ‘You’re not believing a word that scroat said, are you? He’s so crooked they’ll have to bury him in an L-shaped grave.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he’s not telling the truth,’ said Knight, still pacing. ‘He goes on the record, it means we have the blood, Bonner’s wound and an admission. We’ve got them, Frankie boy.’

  Donovan knew cases had been won on less, but he didn’t believe a word Fowler said, while a good QC would gut him in the witness box and leave him like a chippy’s haddock. The blood and the knife were good, but that just placed the two lads there. They didn’t have the actual murder weapon, which puzzled him. Why was the dead boy’s knife the only one they found? Donovan was suffering from stress and lack of sleep but he was alert enough to sense there was something wrong here. Knight just wanted a conviction and he didn’t care who it was. Donovan wanted to get the right man and his gut was telling him these two boys did not actually stab Dickie Himes, though they knew who did.

  ‘Let’s get one of them in here, have a chat,’ he said and Knight stopped pacing to stare back at him.

  ‘They didn’t burst in Stewart Street, what makes you think they’ll burst now?’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘Three nights in C Hall might’ve made them sit up and take notice. We bring one of them up here, apply pressure, maybe we’ll get a result.’

  ‘We’ve got enough, Frankie boy.’

  ‘Can never have enough, Jimmy. And what are you worried about? The worst that can happen is that we get nothing. Best case is one of them bursts and we get an admission.’

  Knight took a deep breath while he thought about this. Then he nodded. ‘Which one?’

  Davie was a patient man. He could sit for hours, alone, waiting for something to happen. He was comfortable on his own and the work he did often required him to be inactive, waiting for someone to turn up. He’d been waiting for Sammy for fifteen minutes, while he’d gone to visit his daughter. He didn’t ask Davie into the four-storey tenement in Castlemilk, but Davie wasn’t insulted. He did not like meeting new people.

  The South Side scheme had been transformed over the years. Davie could remember the lines of flats, uniform grey in their discoloured pebbledash and sometimes streaked with damp. Now a housing association had taken over the running of the former council housing and had systematically converted the drab, prison-like ’60s architecture into something more attractive. The facings had all been replaced, woodwork painted, windows replaced and interiors refurbished. They had done a good job and there was a new spirit about the place.

  But the underbelly was still there and no amount of paint, timber and architectural sleight-of-hand would hide it. Davie knew that among the many honest straight arrows there was still the criminal element burrowing away under the surface, making a buck. Davie had dealt with them. Davie had hurt them. Davie was one of them.

  Sammy emerged onto the street with a youth of around fifteen at his heels. He was typical of lads his age – gangly, pale, hair short, wearing jeans and a short but thick padded jacket. He said something to Sammy, who turned, replied. Davie wound the car window down a touch so he could hear what was being said.

  ‘But I can help,’ said the boy. ‘He’s my brother.’ He pronounced it ‘bru-er’, his accent too lazy to tackle the dipthong.

  Sammy shook his head. ‘Naw, Jimsy, son. I need you here, lookin after your maw.’

  They both looked up at a second floor window and Davie followed their gaze to see a plain, thin-faced woman of around 40 watching them. Even from the street, he could see the raw eyes and blotchy skin of someone who had been crying for days. He saw Sammy’s face in her features, which was a shame. Any woman deserved better.

  Jimsy turned back to his grandfather with defiance in his eyes. ‘You cannae stop me, neither you can. It’s a free country.’

  Sammy sighed. ‘You’re right, son, I can’t stop you. But I’m hopin you’ll step up here, be t
he man of the house. Marty’s already in trouble, we don’t need you droppin yourself in it, too. What I need, what your brother needs, is for you to look after your maw. Can you do that?’

  Jimsy glanced back the window just in time to see his mother step back into the room. He angled his gaze down to his feet and reluctantly nodded. Sammy gave him a soft punch on the shoulder, the Glasgow equivalent of a hug, and walked round to the ­passenger seat of the car. Jimsy looked up and his eyes met Davie’s. Davie saw sadness and confusion. And he saw anger. He hoped that young Jimsy was a man of his word, for if he gave into his rage and tried to do something about his brother it would not end well.

  Sammy glanced at the dog lying in the back seat but said nothing. He settled himself in, buckled up and nodded to his grandson through the windscreen. The boy nodded back. Davie fired up the engine and pulled away. Jimsy watched them all the way.

  Stewie fidgeted. He didn’t like being in this room. He didn’t like being taken away from the hall, eyes on him, especially Marty’s. Made him feel like a grass and he wasn’t no grass. He didn’t like the way the two cops were looking at him, that big dark bastard, Knight, smiling at him and smoking his wee cigar. The other one wasn’t smiling. He looked ill, right enough. Maybe he had the flu or the skitters. Good, Stewie hoped he was dying.

  ‘How you getting on in the Bar-L, Stewie, mate?’ It was Knight talking, breathing a cloud of smoke across the small wooden table. Stewie hated cigar smoke, made him feel sick. Maybe that was what was wrong with the other bastard, sick to his stomach because of his mate’s cigar. Serves him bloody well right.

  Stewie gave them a twitch of the shoulders. ‘This legal? Should my lawyer no be here for this?’

  ‘It’s just a wee chat, Stewie, friendly like. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Aye, right.’ They must think his head buttoned up the back. Polis didn’t have friendly chats. Well, if they thought he was going to say anything without his lawyer there, they were on to plums.