Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  He found his way into the derelict building round the back and was grateful to get out of the blizzard. He stepped lightly, knowing that the floor would be covered with debris, not wishing to alert whoever was inside. He came to a halt, listening. Voices, coming from beyond a doorway. Guttural. And someone whimpering. Then there was a sharp thud and the whimpering rose to an agonised shriek.

  Davie took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The familiar sound of rushing wind whirled in the convolutions of his ears. He could feel his heart beating steadily, echoing in his temples, and he took another deep breath. The wind died, the beating subsided. He was ready.

  He saw them as soon as he eased the door open. Five of them, standing round someone on the floor. Scratchy, Davie presumed. And he was hurt, his body writhing as he screamed. The movement seemed constricted, though, one arm stretched to the side, as if he couldn’t move it, the other arm flailing, twisting, trying to reach it. Jarvis stood over him, one leg on either side of Scratchy’s torso. He was smiling. They had never met, but Davie knew him. The other four looked on. Davie recognised faces but couldn’t put names to them, apart from one – Owen Jones, a big Welshman whose broad shoulders, thick neck and broken nose was testament to his rugby playing days. There was a squat fellow with similar features to Owen – without the broken nose – who was doing his best to melt into the far wall. Davie assumed this was his brother. He looked sick. He didn’t like what was going on. The third man kept his distance, too, also uncomfortable with what Jarvis was doing. The fourth was less squeamish, for he was positioned just behind Jarvis, a slight smile on his face.

  None of them were aware of Davie’s presence as he carefully picked his way among the rubble. There was a precarious column made up of a wooden beam that had crashed from the ceiling and other items of debris which would offer some cover if needed, so he made for that. He took a careful note of his surroundings as he did so, all the while keeping tabs on the men, waiting for one of them to spot him but they were too focussed on Jarvis and what he was doing.

  ‘Just tell us what you saw, man.’ Jarvis’s voice was reasonable and calm.

  Scratchy shook his head furiously, still trying to pluck at some­thing in his other hand. Davie could see what it was now. A nail, driven through the palm, pinning the hand to the rotting floor. From his new vantage point he could just see the nail gun held in Jarvis’s right hand.

  Davie examined the fallen beam to his right, his eyes following it up to the ceiling and then down to the floor. Heavy snow drifted through the large hole in the roof, frosting the space below like an uneven cake. The beam itself was hazardously positioned and it wouldn’t take much for it to come crashing down. Good to know.

  Jarvis’s face creased with a mixture of disgust and irritation. ‘Grab his other hand.’ It was Owen Jones who moved to obey, seizing hold of Scratchy’s free arm as he frantically tried to dislodge the nail piercing his flesh. Scratchy cried out as Jones forced the arm against the floor and Jarvis ducked down, swinging the nail gun up from his side and laying it against the flat hand. The man struggled but Jones held him firmly. Jarvis smiled again and pulled the trigger.

  The thunk of the nail being driven through the hand and into the floor below seemed very loud – but not as loud as Scratchy’s scream. Davie was no stranger to violence, but he could feel something bitter churning in his gut. This was unnecessary. This was fun to Jarvis. It reminded him of Danny McCall, his father, who had reputedly nailed a man to the floor himself. Davie didn’t know if it was true, Joe the Tailor refused to talk about it. Davie knew his father, though, and knew he was capable of it. His face that day would have mirrored Jarvis’s.

  ‘See, you say you saw nothing, mate,’ Jarvis said, his expression back to neutral again. ‘But I ask you – can I really take the chance? Should I take the word of some boozed-up lowlife?’

  Tears streamed down Scratchy’s face as he writhed, spread-­eagled now. His head twisted back and forth, spittle spraying his lips. ‘Scratchy never saw nothin. Scratchy’s telling you the truth.’

  ‘Scratchy could be a lying piece of shite, though.’ Jarvis rested the nail gun on Scratchy’s forehead. ‘And either way, I’d be putting Scratchy out of his misery…’

  ‘That’s enough, Jarvis,’ said Davie, his voice loud in the hollowed-­out building. Jarvis whirled, his men looked round. Scratchy didn’t react, his head still shaking, a low mutter dribbling from his lips. Jarvis narrowed his eyes, focussing through the gloom and the snow piling in from the fractured roof. Finally, he recognised Davie.

  ‘Fuck off, McCall – this doesn’t concern you.’

  Davie didn’t reply. He knew the less he said, the better. He stepped forward, placing his feet carefully on the sagging floorboards, keeping his eyes on the men before him. They wouldn’t rush him, not on this dodgy surface. They were spaced out, which was good because that meant he could take down a couple before the others reached him. He’d never handled five at once, though, and he wasn’t sure he could. But he couldn’t walk away either. Jarvis stepped away from Scratchy, the nail gun dangling in his right. They called him the Butcher, but he was only a big man with his lads at his back and a weapon in his hand. In Davie’s mind, he was a craw – a coward – and he’d enjoy damaging him.

  ‘I said, fuck off, McCall. This is none of your business.’

  Davie was committed now. He would have preferred this encounter to be outside, where there was more room to manoeuvre, but he couldn’t just turn and leave. Jarvis meant to kill Scratchy and he’d do it here. Davie unbuttoned his coat, held the sides out. ‘I’m not armed, Jarvis.’

  Jarvis’s mouth tightened into a thin smile. ‘You think that matters a tinker’s fuck to me?’

  Davie didn’t think it did. He’d only unbuttoned his coat because it was too constricting. When he moved, he’d have to move fast, and he couldn’t be bound by buttons. He studied the men before him. Owen Jones was to his left and already moving, sliding an automatic pistol from his coat pocket, his brother was far to the rear, still unhappy with the savagery of what he’d witnessed. The other two were watching Jerry for instructions. Davie couldn’t be sure if they were armed, although he’d bet good money they were carrying something. So far, they hadn’t produced anything, and it would take valuable time for them to do so. Jarvis had the nail gun, but that was only good at close quarters. Jones had a gun, so that made him the bigger threat. Glasgow neds were far from crack shots, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get lucky.

  Davie needed an equaliser.

  He tilted his head towards the snow falling through the hole in the roof. At least, that’s what he let them think. In reality, he was having another look at the towering beam that stretched from the punctured roof to the uneven floor. He knew what he was going to do, knew it was a gamble, but in such a situation, a gamble is the only thing left. He gave Jarvis one more look and smiled.

  Jarvis’s forehead lined. ‘What the fuck you grinning at, ya bastard?’

  Jones was closing in. It was now or never, Davie thought, and dodged to his right, putting the beam between him and the gun, then threw his shoulder against the heavy wood. He felt it give immediately, but not enough, not nearly enough. He heard Jarvis swear and then the sound of Jones’s pistol, but the shot must’ve gone wide. Davie glanced round the beam, saw Jarvis moving towards him, the other three still far enough away with Jones closing in from the left, gun at arm’s length. That wouldn’t help his aim, Davie thought, as another round went wild. A third shot thudded into the wood just above Davie’s head and as he strained against the beam, he saw Jones had stopped and was trying to take careful aim, using both hands like he’d seen in the movies. Davie planted both feet firmly and heaved, straining against the beam. It shifted, bringing some slates crashing close to Jarvis. Jarvis jerked back and looked up. Davie rammed his shoulder against the beam again, heard the base rasp against the boards beneath. He continued to shove, feeling the weight of the beam itself begin to help him, mor
e material tumbling from the roof as the top dislodged and began to topple. A section of wood lanced down and battered into the floor in front of Jones, who threw himself out of the way. Jarvis backed away, his eyes on the loosening roof, and the other three men also retreated. They all wanted to get away from the beam as it first rocked then descended, bringing with it a shower of debris. Jarvis dodged a thick plank of wood that shot his way then spun, jerking the nail gun in the direction he’d last seen Davie, but couldn’t see him through the blizzard that now raged through the widening hole in the ceiling and the dust thrown up by the collapsing wood and slates. The beam finally crashed to the ground, sending more particles of dirt and shattered slates flying into the air. Jarvis waved the cloud away from his face, squinting for Davie. Jones picked himself up and slouched into a crouch, peering through the mixture of snow and dust.

  Jarvis didn’t see Davie closing in on him from his blind side. Davie hadn’t stopped moving as the beam fell, he’d circled round, and came at him from the darkness. He rammed into Jarvis, grabbed his right wrist with his right hand, looped his arm round his head and wrapped his fingers round his chin. He gave Jarvis’s head a sharp tug, heard a pained groan, and twisted the arm holding the weapon until it was folded behind the man’s back. He jerked on the shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh of the wrist and he leaned into Jarvis’s ear. ‘Drop it,’ he breathed.

  Jarvis may have been a craw, but he wasn’t going to give in easily. ‘Fuck… you…’ he managed, before Davie forced his arm even further up his back, putting more strain on the shoulder ligaments. The nail gun slid between them to land on the floor. Davie kicked it further way, then shot a look over Jarvis’s shoulder to see his men had gathered again and were moving towards them from all sides. Jones was already just a few feet away, gun raised. Okay, he’d disarmed Jarvis, but he still didn’t have Scratchy – and he was the object of the exercise. He looked down at the man, nails poking from his bloody hands. He’d stopped writhing but was still muttering.

  ‘What you gonnae do now, McCall?’ Jarvis sounded triumphant through his pain.

  The truth was, he had no idea. He could stun Jarvis, take Jones down, grab the gun and start blasting, but the thug Jarvis had sent to kill him the other night had been right – he didn’t like guns, had never used one. He twisted Jarvis in front of him, hearing a satisfying grunt of pain, and backed away, keeping Scratchy and the far wall behind him and all four men in his eyeline. With Jarvis’s body shielding him for now, Davie’s mind raced again. Fine, he had Jarvis, they were away from Scratchy, but what now?

  ‘It’s not too late, McCall,’ said Jarvis, his voice showing the strain of Davie’s grip. ‘You can just turn and go, no harm done. It’d be like you’d never been here…’

  Sounded reasonable, but Davie knew Jarvis didn’t mean a word of it. There’d be a bullet in his back before he reached the door. No – the dice had been thrown, now Davie had to wait to see whose number came up.

  Jarvis, though, lost patience. ‘For God’s sake, shoot this fucker, will you? He’s breaking my arm here.’

  The men fanned out, encircling Davie and Jarvis, leaving him open to attack from any side. One of the other men had a gun out now, which complicated matters. Davie jerked Jarvis from side to side, trying to keep them all in view. He would’ve preferred the solid wall directly behind him, but he was a good six feet away and had very little idea how solid the flooring was between him and it. He’d had no firm plan from the start, which was a mistake. Never go in blind, Joe used to say. Know the ground, know the exits, know the strengths and weaknesses. But Davie had come in blind and he’d been forced to act sooner than he expected and now he was paying the price. His mind galloped through various scenarios, but none of them ended well for him. His best bet was to wait, see how it played, then seize any chance he could.

  He was barely aware of the movement to his left, just something surging across the empty church, a blur, a growl and then Jones turning towards it, a curse on his lips and shock in his eyes. He didn’t know what had hit him until he was falling back, the dog’s paws on his chest and its jaws snapping at his face. He tried to bring the gun level as he pitched backwards, but the dog twisted, sank its teeth into his hand. Jones screamed, hit the floor and tried to roll away, but the dog held on, his head shaking his prize back and forth. There was blood now – and screaming, lots of screaming.

  Davie threw Jarvis away from him with force and darted forward, trying to reach the nail gun. Jones’ brother remembered why he was there and moved just as quickly, trying to get to the weapon first, but Davie snatched the tool up and rolled to the side. The man tried to follow but Davie stretched out, pressed the gun against his leg and pounded a nail into his calf. The man dropped to his knees, his screams mixing with his brother’s, who had managed to jerk his hand free, losing a chunk of flesh in the process. The gun lay at the dog’s feet and he stood over it, teeth bared in a bloody snarl, as if daring Jones to try to snatch it away. Jones backed away, never taking his eyes from the animal.

  Davie pulled himself to his feet and looked across the space to see Lenny pinning the other gunman by the throat against the wall. The man’s feet were a good inch from the floor and his eyes were bulging. Lenny gave him a rap on the forehead with his cane, let him drop like wet washing then retrieved the gun from where it had landed and expertly slid the magazine from the grip, jerked a live round free and checked the chamber was completely empty. Bobby held the last man in an armlock and was dragging him around the room, firing punches at his face as he moved. He darted one final blow then let his opponent go. The man’s knees buckled and he slammed onto the floor. ‘Oops,’ said Bobby.

  Jarvis had hauled himself to his feet and he watched his men being bested as he rubbed his shoulder. He made no moves to help them or go for Davie. He knew when he was beaten.

  Sammy strode between them all and knelt beside Scratchy. When he laid a hand gently on his chest, the vagrant cried out and his head jerked up. Sammy shot back like he’d been burned.

  ‘Easy, son,’ Sammy said, his voice soothing, ‘we’re here to help.’

  Scratchy’s head sank back and he resumed his muttering. Davie stepped to Sammy’s side and stared down at the vagrant’s wounds. The palms were slick with blood, which pooled and soaked into the boards beneath them.

  Sammy looked up and Davie saw the horror in his eyes. ‘Jesus, Davie…’ He tried to say something else, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he shook his head and looked back down. Jesus indeed, thought Davie. Scratchy had been crucified for other men’s sins.

  Davie turned back to Jarvis, who was giving him a dark, hate-filled glare. ‘I’ll not forget this,’ he said.

  Davie stepped closer to him and stared directly into his face. ‘You played, you lost. Live with it.’

  Jarvis blinked, tried to hold Davie’s cold gaze, but couldn’t. He looked at Bobby, then Lenny and finally Sammy. Davie realised he was memorising faces and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet that only Jarvis heard it. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Jarvis swallowed, unnerved by Davie’s quiet manner. Davie held his gaze for a moment more then said, ‘Pick up your rubbish and get home to your mammy.’

  Jarvis hesitated for as long as he could, then looked away. He looked for Jones and jerked his head towards his brother. ‘Jonesy, see to Gwynfor.’

  ‘Fuckin mutt near tore my hand off, Jerry!’

  ‘Man up, for God’s sake. Give your brother a hand.’ Jones cradled his hand as he haltingly went to help Gwynfor, who was tentatively touching the nail still protruding from his calf. He was crying. Jarvis turned to the man Lenny had pinned to the wall earlier, who was coming round and dragging himself to his feet, an ugly red welt already formed between his eyes. ‘Tommy, lift Craig up, get him out of here.’ Tommy crossed somewhat unsteadily to his mate and hauled him to his feet as Jarvis backed away from Davie. The wider the gap became, the more his courage returned. ‘I don’t care who you are, McCall. You’ve sho
ved your nose into something you shouldn’t. I won’t forget this, any of this, I won’t forget any of you.’

  Davie contented himself with a long, hard look as Jarvis continued to back away, his men limping or being helped after him. Then they were through the door and out of sight. Bobby shook his head as he moved closer Davie. ‘How come these boys always have to have the last word?’ Davie shrugged as he watched Sammy trying to comfort Scratchy, Lenny now at his side. Bobby didn’t want to get any closer.

  Davie knew there was little he could do to help, so he moved to where the dog sat, still guarding the gun. He knelt, scratching it behind one ear.

  ‘You should’ve seen him go, Davie,’ said Bobby behind him. ‘Like an arrow, right for that guy, soon as he was off his lead.’

  Davie looked into the dog’s eyes, willing the animal his thanks. The dog’s tongue rolled out one side of his mouth and he leaned forward, sniffed Davie’s face. There was no attempt to lick, for which Davie was thankful, but they had turned a corner. Maybe there was a future for them after all.

  He was still looking at the dog when he said, ‘You shouldn’t have got involved, Bobby.’

  Bobby’s face looked hurt. ‘We heard the shooting, Davie. No way we were letting you face it alone.’

  ‘You’re out of The Life, Bobby, you took a risk.’

  ‘I’m out of The Life, mate, not out of yours.’

  Davie felt something nip at his throat and he turned back to the dog to cover up his blinking eyes. Bobby was the closest thing he had to a brother. It would remain unsaid, though. It always would between them.

  ‘Do me a favour, though,’ Bobby said and Davie raised his head again. ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell Connie about this.’

  Marie was in the square hallway of their Shawlands flat, a new red notice in her hand. Donovan didn’t know where it was from, it didn’t really matter. She had been waiting for him, he realised, the fury building inside her, which was why she was in the hallway, not even giving him the chance to take off his coat or step into the living room. She didn’t scream, for their daughter was sleeping in her room a few feet away, but her voice seemed deafening.