by Ed James
And fuck me, there’s a couple of the wee toerags raiding the back of the van.
‘Fuck sake.’ I undo my belt and get out into the cold.
And Elvis is with me on the pavement. ‘Bri, this is New York. These boys are always armed.’
Another scan and all I see is fists and purple T-shirts. Boys of all colours and most sizes, just no real fat bastards in there. ‘I don’t see anyone armed. Come on.’ Fists clenched, I walk over to the ambulance. ‘Hey, cunts! You want to try handling some Glasgow steel?’
Not that any of the pricks take any notice. This big lanky streak of piss lands one on the paramedic and pushes him over. Real nasty-looking fucker, too, skinhead and a trimmed beard. Big stupid ears. He’s laying the boot in, and his two mates are standing back, pair of big rugby types pulling the other medic away.
Makes me think this cunt is the ringleader.
So fuck it, I head straight for him and elbow his mates out of the way. Pair of them go down like a sack of spuds. Them out of the way, I take another step over to the boy and stick the fuckin’ nut on him.
Crunch, right in the middle of his nose.
He stumbles back into the ambulance, his hands all over his nose, trying to stop the blood pishing out. Boy’s fingers are covered in sovvy rings, though, so I better be careful here. I take a swing at this prick’s plums, but I miss and just catch him on the thigh.
My bonce is fuckin’ screaming at us to stop, but fuck this, I’m on him, lashing out with fists and trying to stick the nut on again, but some cunt’s pulling me back and it better not fuckin’ be Elvis, only it’s not just one cunt it’s about twenty and it’s like being at a gig where we’re all crushed in together and I can’t fuckin’ breathe and they’re pushing and pulling us at the same time and it’s just fuckin’ dirty hands all over my body and they’ve got my fuckin’ mask and my goggles and the fuckin’ shower curtain’s over my fuckin’ head and I can’t fuckin’ see anything and some cunt punches me in the kidneys.
And I’m on my knees now inside the ambulance somehow.
And my back is fuckin’ sore. Really fuckin’ sore. Feels like some cunt’s pulled out my spine and put it back in the wrong way round. I try to get up but someone smacks us in the chops. My skin feels raw from it.
‘Don’t mess with us, bitch!’
Loud footsteps heading away from us. Scummy little fuckers, stealing from a fuckin’ ambulance. I mean… Talk about low.
I haul the shower curtain over my head and chuck it to the side, then step back outside the ambulance.
Elvis is on the ground, and they’ve stripped him. Just his underpants sparing his modesty. And his sex mask. His clothes are everywhere, but it’s like a path leading to those cunts.
The paramedics are getting up. Boys look fucked, likes. Battered and bruised.
‘Stay with him.’ I set off away from them, pounding my feet off the pavement and starting to pick up the pace like when I ran cross country at school, then at training college and I’m getting into a groove and getting faster and faster and feeling strong as a fuckin’ ox and there they fuckin’ are!
Daft cunts are all wearing pinks and purples. The fuck is that all about?
‘Come here!’
The big one, the leader, stops and looks round at us, but he fuckin’ knows he’s going to get battered again, so he scrams.
I shoot after him, speeding up still, but I feel a fuckin’ stitch forming. Absolute bastard, like I’ve been stabbed in the guts again.
Half of those wee shites head into the subway, the other half into a back alley, but I’ve got no choice but to follow the big boy down into the fucking underground station.
Need to take it slow down the steps. Aside from not wanting to go arse over tit down them, I’m not on home turf here. No baton, no back-up, just Elvis in his grundies and a pair of smacked-in paramedics.
Into the ticket area and fuck me, there are just too many ways those boys could’ve gone. Train lines running everywhere on or off the island and in both directions too. And the roar of engines makes it sound like they’re all leaving at the same time.
The little cunts have got away.
9
Cullen
Angela was panting much harder than Cullen by the time they got to the fifteenth floor of the tower block. Through the window at the end, the living hell of Wester Hailes spread around them like lava from a volcano. So many miserable lives forgotten about and uncared for. The lift still being knackered was proof, if anything. And this floor was one of the worst. Been a few years since Cullen had been up here, but it only seemed to have got worse in that time.
He stepped onto the landing and sucked in a deep breath, but his recent exercise regime was paying off. Focusing on fitness instead of bulk. And he had Hunter to thank for it. He raised an eyebrow at Angela. ‘Should get out running.’
‘You try getting any time to yourself when you’re raising two kids on your own.’
Cullen winced. ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting.’
‘Hard to process what happened, even after all this time.’ Angela took a final deep breath, then walked over the narrow hallway to the address. ‘Police!’ She knocked on the door. ‘Didn’t we raid here a few years ago?’
‘Can’t remember. Been here a couple of times and it all just blends together.’ Cullen looked around the place, trying to check for differences between reality and a fading memory. ‘There was definitely one of those steel doors here, but I’m not sure it was this floor. Or even this building.’
‘Was Kenny here last time?’
‘Can’t remember.’ Cullen sucked in a deep breath and caught a vague whiff of something quasi-legal, at best. ‘You ever run across him?’
‘Eh, he punched me in the tits once, you daft sod. When I was still in uniform.’
‘Christ, that takes me back. Feels like a lifetime ago.’
‘Less time than you’d think.’
The door opened and a man’s face peered out. Pudgy and looking ultra-stoned. The fug of dope smell backed up that theory. Ricky Falconer didn’t seem to be too concerned that two cops were showing up at his door while he was wasted. ‘Yo?’
‘Looking for Kenny. He in?’
‘Aye.’
Cullen took hold of his baton, ready to snap it out and threaten with it. ‘So can we speak to him?’
‘Eh?’
‘You said he’s in.’
‘No, man, I meant he’s inside. Barlinnie.’ Ricky frowned. ‘Or was it Saughton? Fuck knows, man.’
Angela narrowed her eyes at him. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Back around Christmas time.’ Ricky started clicking his fingers. ‘Aye, man, that was it. Me and the old lady visited him in Saughton. Her Majesty’s Prison Edinburgh, eh?’
Angela glanced at Cullen, clearly thinking along the same lines, then at Ricky. ‘Can we speak to your mother?’
‘You a medium, doll?’
‘What’s my dress size got to—’
Ricky’s burst of laughter cut her off. ‘No, man, can you speak to the spirits?’
‘She’s dead?’
‘Aye. Massive heart attack on New Year’s Day, man. I mean, they say women don’t have them, least not the same as fellies, and she was skin and bone, man, skin and bone, but she popped her clogs over a steak pie and glass of sherry. Tragic, man, tragic.’
‘So your brother’s not been in touch?’
‘He wasn’t at the funeral. My uncle Robert went in to speak to him, but he said Kenny didn’t believe him that she was dead. Thought she was living in Perth with Robert.’
‘And was she?’
‘No, man. She’s dead.’ Ricky frowned, bleary-eyed, maybe sensing something was up. ‘What’s he done?’
‘You mind if we have a look inside?’
‘Nothing to hide.’ Ricky stepped aside to let them in.
Cullen let Angela go first and, sure enough, Ricky had nothing to hide.
The flat was a typical
bedsit, kitchen units on the walls, bare mattress in the middle of a floor littered with empty pizza boxes. An open door showed an avocado bathroom suite.
Ricky sat down and picked up a roll-up from an ashtray in the middle of the floor and sparked at a lighter. ‘Come on, you banjo bastard thing.’ It clicked and a flame licked at his cigarette. ‘So, let me guess, he’s escaped?’
‘Correct in not-even-one.’ Angela poked her head into the bathroom, but it didn’t take long to search it. She turned to face Ricky. ‘You seem to know a lot about it, though.’
Ricky took a long drag and exhaled cigarette smoke. Not even Kenny Falconer’s brother would openly smoke dope in front of the cops. ‘Sister, all I know is, when me and the old girl – God rest her soul – visited Kenny, he was talking about getting out. Reckoned he had a plan to get away.’
‘Know what that plan was?’
‘Man, I thought he’s never likely to be able to carry it out, so I didn’t ask. Kenjo’s got a twenty-year sentence without parole, eh?’
Angela couldn’t help herself from rolling her eyes. ‘Well, if he will sell illegal knives and kill people…’
‘Doll, I haven’t heard from him in months. Besides, he still owes me a ton of backpay.’
‘Backpay?’
‘From his bookshop.’
Gorgie Road was eerily quiet, like this section of the city had decided to lock down before an official order. Unusual for people to follow instructions like that.
Boab’s Books was somehow still trading, but it seemed to have evolved from a grotty porn shop stocking some grottier paperbacks into a hipster coffee shop stocking grotty paperbacks. Still the same Boab’s Books sign, though, blood-red text on a black background, but it had been cleaned up and looked a deliberate style choice rather than inherited from the previous owner. Not that the owner had changed.
Angela stopped outside and grabbed Cullen’s sleeve, blocking his entry. She stared at him, shaking her head. Didn’t look like she was going to let go of his sleeve any time soon. ‘Scott, you’re lying to me.’
‘I’m not!’
‘All I asked is if Kenny Falconer was connected to Dean Vardy. That’s it. I can handle the truth.’
‘It’s not just a simple thing, is it? If he was connected, what are you going to do? Push him down a flight of stairs?’
She looked away. ‘No.’
‘Angela, are you sure you want to know?’
She didn’t think about it. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay, so he supplied knives for Dean Vardy’s outfit. We could never prove it, mind, but we can track at least five murders from Vardy’s goons to Falconer’s knives.’
She looked up at the sky. ‘Thanks.’
‘You okay?’
‘Let’s do this.’ She stepped through the door and got a really nice chiming sound.
Cullen followed her in. The coffee smell was gorgeous.
‘Gagging for one, like.’ Angela marched up to the counter.
Behind the till, a blackboard had yellow letters clicked into place, advertising the various ways the barista could add hot liquids to ground coffee beans.
What the hell was a V60, anyway?
And cold-brewed coffee? People still drank that?
‘With you in a second.’ The hipster barista was pouring hot water from an ancient brass kettle into a filter cone, and taking his bloody time with it too. He looked like he’d walked straight off the cover of the Gothamite magazine, maybe a semi-ironic Art Oscar piece on non-toxic masculinity. Braces, checked shirt rolled up to the elbows to show off sleeve tattoos that stretched down the backs of his hands. Chunky specs and a long beard that was surely a magnet for a particular coronavirus.
The shop was tiny, five metres square, with heaving bookshelves all over the place, tables and chairs scattered throughout. One thing hadn’t changed – incense sticks still burned in empty wine bottles.
A couple of punters lugged tatty old books in stacks from their waists to their chins, matching his and hers thrillers, and dumped them on the counter.
Cullen spotted another yellow-text clicky blackboard thing:
Lockdown is coming!
Get your read on!
Clearance sale, baby!
Ten books for a fiver! Cash only.
But it looked like the only member of staff was the barista. And it wasn’t obvious whose coffee he was making either. Then again, if Ricky Falconer was managing the place, then good luck to him. The male customer handed over six tenners and they eased the stacks of books outside.
Cullen walked up to the counter and held up his warrant card. ‘You the manager?’
‘For my sins, yeah.’ London accent and posh with it. ‘Call me Reginald. That’s with a W.’
‘Wreginald?’
‘That’s right.’ Wreginald sipped the coffee himself, soaking his moustache whiskers with creamy foam. ‘God, that’s good. Can I get you one?’
‘We’re fine.’ Cullen put his warrant card away. ‘Do you know the owner?’
‘Just deal with his brother. Ricky?’ Wreginald shook his head. ‘Some guy. I mean, I sort of rent the place from him. The books are now a sideline, but the coffee is making a mint. Roast it myself. If this country locks down, though…’
‘So you’ve never met the owner?’
‘Kenny. Right. Never met the chap.’
‘And yet you know his name.’
Wreginald stared into his cup. ‘Shit.’
‘Sir, are you lying to us?’
‘No!’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Is he here?’
‘No!’ But Wreginald glanced through the back.
‘He’s here, isn’t he?’
‘No!’
Cullen walked over to the shop door and put the snib down. He nodded at Wreginald. ‘Stay here. Okay? Don’t leave.’
Wreginald glanced at the door, but perfect timing. A squad car pulled up and the two uniforms got out, then came into the shop.
Cullen waved at them. ‘Keep him here.’
‘Sure thing.’ The bigger of the two nodded at Wreginald. ‘Any of that cold brew left?’
Cullen didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to order the guy not to extort free coffee. He opened the door and entered the back corridor.
A stair led up to a half-open door. Stacks of books lay on the steps, probably ready to go out on the shelves as part of the desperate clearance sale.
Cullen drew his baton, ready to snap out with the first swing, and headed up. He stopped by the door but couldn’t see anyone inside.
Angela walked up behind him, her face like a robot from the future sent to murder the mother of a resistance leader.
Cullen checked his mask was secured, then nudged the door open with his baton. Still no sounds or smells, so he sneaked in.
The room was dark, with the curtains drawn, and well-furnished, hand-made wooden kitchen units on three sides. In the middle, a leather sofa sat in front of a giant TV with a PlayStation game resting on the pause menu, a hulking Greek god flexing his ludicrous muscles.
No sign of Kenny Falconer.
‘He’s not here.’ Cullen walked over the sofa to inspect in closer detail. The game controller was plugged into some fancy headphones, the sort his old man would wear in his man cave while rocking out to his shite old music. He walked over to the counter and rested his hand against the kettle. Cold.
A blister pack of pills sat in a cupboard, half-popped.
Cullen snapped on a pair of gloves and took them out. ‘Ah, Christ. These are the same anti-5G ones Keith Ross was selling.’
Angela scowled at him. ‘How could anyone be so bloody stupid?’
Something rattled behind the twitching curtains. A body. Moving. Trying to pull up the sash window.
Cullen put a finger to his lips, then eased his way over. Guy was usually armed, so one of two ways to play this. Charge and knock the wind out of him? But he was by a window and Cu
llen didn’t need the paperwork hassle. He gave Angela the nod, then lashed out with his baton and it extended fully as it arced round. Metal cracked off bone.
Angela wrapped the curtains around the screaming figure and pulled them away from the wall with a bursting sound.
Cullen knelt on the twitching body and eased the curtains wide.
Kenny Falconer was staring up at him, his facemask covering his eyes. He coughed and it sounded like he’d torn something in his lungs. ‘Man.’
Cullen grabbed his T-shirt and held him in place. ‘Kenny Falconer, I’m arresting you for—’
Falconer coughed again, loud and harsh, and collapsed into a sitting position under the window. His face was close to turning purple as he did another wracking cough.
And Angela booted him in the balls. ‘That’s for my husband.’
10
Bain
Ah you bastard, I’m fuckin’ aching here. Legs feel like school dinner custard but even fuckin’ thicker. And heavier.
And where the fuck am I? Some New York street but they all look the same round here. Hardly one of those fuckin’ iconic parts of the city. Think I came this way, but the traffic’s fucked off and it’s all spooky quiet again.
Reminds me of being twatted in London that one time, no idea where I was going and I could barely see my own nose I was that pished. Still ended up back in Soho for a bunk up, mind.
And my fuckin’ arse is aching too. Someone must’ve kicked the gluteal and it’s just ow. My kidney too. Last thing I need is to lose my liver, but thank fuck I’ve got two fuckin’ kidneys.
Fuck sake.
Something’s clicking and rattling in my left leg, just above the hip. Is the gall bladder down there? Appendix? Or my fuckin’ spleen?
No. It’s my fuckin’ phone in my pocket. Christ, I can’t hear shite. Must’ve clattered me in both ears, feels like my bonce is filled with cotton wool.
