Willie knew the only way he would ever stop the gear was if he stopped selling it, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, was it? He was responsible for supplying most of the jakie cunts in Muirhouse, and the best of it was he was a jakie now too just like the rest of them. Only difference was he had a bit more cash to throw around, that was all. He felt an angry itch beginning to burn underneath his skin. Pretty soon it would be too hard to ignore. That was the problem with ching, it didn’t last long enough. He’d arsed the whole gram after Sean left but once that buzz wore off all that would be left was that burning urge for the skag brought on tenfold. He slapped at his face a few times and growled at the dark path in front of him, as he tried to focus on the sawn-off that was stuffed down the front of his Levi’s. Still gave him that sense of power that he had felt when he first held a piece. At least that feeling hadn’t died, strong as ever. Even felt it giving him a bit of a hard on as the cold hard steel rubbed against his tadger. What the fuck was wrong with him? A shotgun could bring it to attention in a heartbeat but a naked bird could barely muster a thing these days. Willie Graham. Fucking mental, of that there was no doubt. Pure crazy. No drug could take that away from him.
As he approached the graffiti covered walls, from the muddy slope at the edge of Telford Park, a grey hoodie pulled over his head and a scarf wrapped round his face covering everything but his black coked up pupils, he wondered what the fuck he was doing turning up all barrels blazing without a getaway. Had Sean and his coke to blame for that though, the cunt. It was marching powder all right. He’d marched from Muirhouse to Telford in what felt like seconds.
There were two of them, great. One behind the counter, who was obviously Willie’s man, and another smaller man leaning on it from the other side scanning the pages of a newspaper. He could just make them out through the sliver of doorway as he snaked his way along the side of the offie and peered round the corner before looking all around him for unwanted witnesses.
He felt the sweat pouring from his face and soaking into the fabric of the scarf, and pulled it down so he could wipe it away with his sleeve. He was beginning to feel that agitated way, how you sometimes got when you’d had a load of ching but it was starting to wear off. Worse for him he would be clucking like fuck very soon, his brain, and body desperately aching to replace one high for that other more cosy and familiar one. The thing that was adding to his agitation was he had been here before loads of times. It was one of those off licences, popular amongst cunts who liked their bevy at unusual times. Such as the times when you were at a house party full of folk speeding out of their nuts, and that last glass of vodka and coke had been tanned. Certain places wouldn’t bat an eyelid at dishing you bevy even at half five in the morning if need be and this was one of them. He was knee deep in Telford after all. Who gave a fuck about a licence? The important part of this angle was that he had been one of those raging speed freaks turning up demanding bevy at an ungodly hour, and he hoped to fuck the cunt wouldn’t be able to finger him. Lucky that sweat drenched scarf was pulled tight around half his face. Best he kept it there, as irritating as it was becoming. He looked down at his shaking. What was wrong with him? All he needed to do was charge in and take as much money as they had in there. If it wasn’t enough, tough, Davy could go chasing after the rest.
Without letting another thought push its way into his head he barged the door open and whipped the sawn-off out of his jeans, raising it to head height, and walking toward the counter where the two men hadn’t even looked up yet.
“HEY!” He dragged the shotgun handle along a shelf, knocking dozens of chocolate bars to the floor. He had their attention now, as they stood up straight with their hands in the air. The first guy, stood there, frozen, looking straight at Willie through his spectacles, clearly too petrified to turn away as he stalked toward him.
“You! Look at the fuckin groond awright!?” He slammed the shotgun handle into his face, knocking him to the floor as several teeth spilled from his mouth and danced along the deck like tiny skittles. He aimed the sawn-off firmly at Rasheed, who was breathing heavy.
“Jist calm down man eh!? Ah’ll get you everything I have in the till. Just give me two secs!”
“Aye fuckin right ye will. This is what ye get fer fallin behind oan yer payments ya cunt.”
“My payments?”
“Yer payments aye! It’s no a robbery, it’s a fuckin collection! Now get the money out pronto before Ah lose ma fuckin patience ya pakki bastard!”
He rammed the shotgun handle into the front of the till, sending it crashing to the ground on the other side of the counter. “Jist hurry the fuck up will ye! An pick it back up so Ah can see what yer daein. Nae tryin any funny business behind there, or yer pal here gets a bullet in um.”
The specky wee gadgy on the floor peered up at Willie again before catching a heavy boot that clattered his glasses sideways.
As Rasheed frantically pulled a stack of notes from the till, Willie heard the door open.
Fuck Fuck Fuck...
It was a wee woman standing about five foot tall, also of Asian descent. The whole fucking family was there now. Willie cursed himself for agreeing to this mental job. “Hands where Ah can fuckin see thum you!”
She began muttering her native words under her breath, as she threw her nimble wee hands in the air. Sounded like she was praying. Nippy as fuck.
“Shut up!”
She continued muttering, prompting Willie to thrust the sawn-off at her.
“Ah says shut yer fuckin noise!!”
The words had barely come out his mouth before he felt the blade go into his shoulder.
“YOU CUNT!” Next thing you know he heard the scream of a banshee and the crazy little dyke was clinging onto his back with her little arm tight around his neck, trying to choke the life out of him.
He backed hard into the sweet shelf, knocking enough wind out of her so he could loosen her grip enough for him to ram an elbow against her jaw, forcing her to fall to the deck next to Specky. Willie turned his attention back to the counter, puffing and panting, trying to block out the sound of the irritating muttering coming from down below.
Shut up shut up shut up...
Sounded like little insects crawling underneath the sweaty scarf that was now clinging to his chin. He wrapped it firmly back around his mug.
“Money. NOW!”
She sprung up at him like a relentless little ball of fury, the momentum forcing them to collapse into a stand full of car air fresheners, the wee felt trees spilling everywhere as they wrestled for control of the sawn-off.
Willie pulled the trigger in a panic and watched as she collapsed under the force of the point-blank gunshot that tore right through her arm. Her face was now white with shock as she lay there in a bloody heap. Her prayers were now tiny murmurs and all fight had left her.
“AISHA!! YOU EVIL BASTARD I’LL KILL YOU!!”
There was no time to stand and stare as he now had a knife wielding shopkeeper tearing his way round the counter looking for revenge. Willie fired off another three shots as he came at him, the last one hitting its target, a short shrill scream as he dropped like a sack of tatties. Willie scarpered out the door and back up towards the railway, before frantically wiping down the sawn-off and chucking it in the bushes.
What an amateur, turning up with a shooter and no getaway. The longing for that sweet skag engulfed his mind like a dirty cloud as he bombed it down the railway to the sound of distant sirens.
26
Sean pressed his fingers into his temples, his elbows resting on the edge of the bar in The Gunner as the paper lay open in front of him. This was very bad shit.
ASIAN WOMAN SHOT AND LEFT FOR DEAD IN OFF LICENCE.
Aisha Ahmed (44) was shot at point-blank range in a newsagents on Telford Drive at around 9pm last night. Her husband, 46-year-old shopkeeper Rasheed Ahmed, managed to escape the attack unscathed despite a further four gunshots heard around the area. The Police have detain
ed their main suspect in what is looking like a possible race attack. Whilst currently in critical condition, Aisha Ahmed has been lauded by officers who have praised her heroic actions in trying to wrestle the shotgun from the attacker.
Davy appeared cutting an image of dark turmoil, setting a bottle of whisky and two glasses in front of them, before scrunching up the paper and dumping it in the bin behind the bar.
“I cannot believe he took a fucking shotgun with him. Fuckin idiot. If he talks, we’re fucked, you and me, ye know that eh?”
“Willie’s solid Dad, he’ll no grass.”
“You sure about that son? Even if they tag this as a fucking race attack and he’s facin what fifteen to twenty years? Who knows how much if she fuckin crokes it!”
“Look, I’ll speak tae him. We’ll work it out.”
“Work it out? Sean, Ah know he’s yer best pal, but Ah’m no goin back inside fer nae cunt!”
There was a rapid banging at the front door. Sean’s arse fell out for fear of the worst. If Willie had buckled under the pressure, they were fucked, Dad was right. He felt the dread rising up in his chest like a sickness, his heart started thumping like a hip hop beat, this was it, either a heart attack or a collaring, with both scenarios looking pretty grim to say the least. They both looked at one another as the banging continued.
Davy put a finger to his lips. “Out the fuckin back door. We need tae get our stories straight before we face those cunts.”
Sean felt his knees trembling as Davy unbolted the door at the back of The Gunner. This was it. The heading was clear in his mind.
SEAN DONALDSON – RACIST MURDERER.
The door had barely opened an inch before an irate Uncle Dougie bulldozed his way through it, sending Davy tumbling under the force of a heavy right hand. Soon they were all over each other, sending Sean tumbling himself under the weight of the struggle. He sat there trying to catch his breath as father and uncle rolled around the floor like laddies on the playground, both trying to gain the upper hand so they could smack the shit out of the other.
After a minute or so of struggling Sean stepped in having seen enough, helping them separate. Dougie dragged himself to his feet, still raging, his shirt ripped open exposing a red, heaving chest.
“Been ootae jail five fuckin minutes and already yer hell bent on fuckin everything up in’t ye!?”
Davy spat a mouthful of blood from his busted lip, as Sean stood in between with arms outstretched, determined to stop them from going at it again.
“I’ve had Willie on the phone fae the fuckin jail, cause he couldnae get a hold ay you Sean! Cluckin like fuck, freakin out. The heat this brings down on everyone, dae you have any idea?” He jabbed his finger at Sean. “I expected mair fae you. You gonnae let this fuckin idiot drag ye doon with um are ye? So keen tae follow in Daddy's footsteps wae a nice hefty prison sentence!?”
“ENOUGH!” yelled Davy. “We sent him tae pick up a debt! How were we tae know he’d end up blastin the cunt’s wife!?”
“Ye should’ve came tae me! I could’ve got Gordon or George tae handle it properly! Not Willie when he’s roasted on fuckin smack! But ye were too proud weren't ye? Had tae try an deal wae it yersel! Well look where it’s got ye. Bravo. Well this is your mess, both ay yous, so you can clean it up, better no fall in my fucking lap! You better make fucking certain he keeps his mooth shut! Oh and another thing. Thanks tae you, big brother, I’ve now lost one of my main dealers. He’s caught red handed. They’ve got the shooter and two witnesses, so he’s no gonnae see the light of day in a very long time. That means I lose a lot ay money while I rearrange things. That’s money you’re gonnae cover. You’re responsible so it comes outae your pocket!”
Davy laughed. “So what – ye gonnae put a tax on me now are ye? Like ye’ve no got enough money ya greedy fuckin bottom feeder!”
“Fuckin right! Until further fucking notice!”
“Steady Uncle Dougie, I can manage the full distribution in the meantime. It’s workable.”
“What and cut him in on the sly? No likely! Am cuttin you outtae the smack Sean. Until such time as Ah feel Ah can trust ye again.”
Sean shuddered at the impact of the back door slamming shut behind Dougie.
“If Willie can spill the beans tae that bastard what dae ye think he’s capable of sayin tae the polis when they press him? Eh?”
Davy stepped closer to Sean, who was feeling the strain, stuck in an increasingly tough spot between Father, Uncle and best friend.
Before he could answer back, there was another loud banging at the front door.
By the time they made their way through and noticed the flashing lights outside, it was too late, they had the place surrounded.
27
Davy sneered at the two detectives as he stubbed a cigarette out firmly on the table in front of him, willing one of them to object to it. On the outside he was keeping up a cold, hard, defiant front that betrayed the fact he was flapping like a flag in the wind on the inside. He had been out barely two months after a stretch of fourteen long, hard years and there was no danger he was going back for seconds. He sat there enduring the onslaught, lighting fag after fag, with the occasional break to utter the words, “No comment”. All the while the cogs were turning in his mind. Had that little scumbag smackhead Willie Graham dared give him up? And why was it they were only interested in him and not Sean? And as if all this wasn't enough, he now had Dougie, his ungrateful bastard of a younger brother, trying to use the situation to exert his self assumed superiority, demanding a cut of his takings to make up for the money Davy had supposedly cost him, but that was all bull shit and Davy knew it. Just another excuse for Dougie to try and keep him in his place. No danger, Tubsy. This was the older brother’s time. Sooner or later, Dougie would have to step aside and allow him to assume control. If Davy was able to stay out of prison long enough that was.
“So much for keepin yer nose clean, David. Fourteen years in Bar L Didn’t think ye’d be in such a hurry to go back. Ye homesick?”
“Ah dinnae ken what yer talkin about. Ah’m no sayin a thing until ma lawyer’s here.”
“An how ye gonnae pay fer a lawyer? Wae yer loan sharkin money?”
“Ah dinnae ken what yer talkin aboot, pal.”
“Aw come on David, we’ve been keepin tabs on you since ye got out. Did ye think we were gonnae let ye outae our sights?”
“Look boys, Ah’m awfy flattered by aw the attention, but seriously, stop wastin ma time an let me outae here. Ah’ve kept ma heid doon an steyed ootae trouble since Ah got oot. Ah collect glasses an serve pints, fer fuck’s sake just let a man get on wae his life eh?”
The detective moved over to the table and clamped his hands down on it before looking squarely at Davy. “Stop talkin shite, an start talkin! We know you’re behind this!”
He looked the detective square in the eye with defiance. “Ah’m no sayin a word until ma fuckin lawyer’s here.” Davy took the last draw of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the table. He took another cigarette out and lit it up as he locked eyes with the other detective who had been keeping a back seat till now. His blonde hair was slicked into a quaff, with boyish looks. Looked like he was barely out of high school. “You’d get eaten alive in the jail you.”
“Ye got the photos Sam? Gettin a bit tired of this merry go round.”
“Aw dinnae tell me ye’s have been takin photaes an aw? Nothin too explicit Ah hope?”
“Better than that.” He pulled a set of photos out of a folder and dropped them on the table, a smug smile stretching across his pretty face. They showed Davy handing Rasheed a wad of cash outside The Gunner.
Davy sat back in his chair, his brain hard at work trying to decide which card to play next. The good thing was this meant all they had was a hunch that he was behind the shooting, based on a few photos. The bad thing was all they needed to do was press Willie a little harder and they might just connect the dots that led to Davy heading back in for another ten s
tretch at the very least. He didn’t like those odds.
“What’s the matter Davy? Cat got your tongue?”
The detective pressed his finger against the worried looking figure of Rasheed in the photo.
“This man was shot in his off licence last night. His wife is currently in a critical condition in the Western. Better hope that condition doesn’t get worse.”
“We’ve got the shooter and it’s only a matter of time till he fingers you. He’d probably give you up for a score bag right now the way he’s itching for it. Might as well make it easier on yerself and come clean now Davy pal. Only a matter of time till we fill in the blanks.”
Davy could feel a vein throbbing away at his temple as he drove back to Muirhouse from the station, every now and then smacking his large bony hands against the top of the steering wheel and screaming out of the window as the stark reality set in. The pressure was unbearable. Fourteen years was a bloody long time, too long. It had cost him a wife and two daughters, a big part of fatherhood, not to mention a big part of his life, and he would stop at absolutely nothing to stay out. Whether it be a desperate smack-head facing a twenty stretch, or a money dodging chancer ducking payments, not a soul who posed a threat to his newfound freedom was safe.
As he swerved round the corner into Pennywell Road, forcing another motorist to slam on the brakes, he noticed a familiar sight plodding its way down the pavement. Bob fucking Callum, the perfect target for him to deflect his fury.
“BASTAAAAAARD!!”
He spun the steering wheel to the right, forcing the car onto the pavement and made a beeline for the panicked bookie owner whose fish supper was now scattered across the road. He took him out by his trailing leg, before slamming the car into reverse, hoping that his body was underneath the wheels.
After screeching to a halt at the side of the road Davy lurched out of the car, grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him into the middle of the pavement before snatching hold of his collar as he glowered over him with fist clenched.
Pure Angst Page 13
