‘What about for money?’
He almost laughed at the reaction. She was suddenly more alert, like a deer startled in the woods. She tried to cover it, too late.
‘What kind of money?’
Billy pulled out his wallet and opened it. Just a few tenners. He counted them out, showing her.
‘Fifty.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘It’s all I have.’
She turned to look at the blaze. She lifted her phone and took a picture of the flames. Without turning, she spoke.
‘Go on, then.’
She was holding her other hand out, down at her side, where her friends couldn’t see.
‘Number first.’
She looked sideways at him. She was pushing buttons on her phone.
‘Look at this picture.’ She spoke loudly, for the benefit of her mates.
She handed him the phone. On the screen it said ‘Wayne’ then a mobile number. He memorised it, then passed the phone back to her.
He slipped the money into her open hand. She deftly tucked it inside her bra, her back turned to her mates.
Billy got his own phone out and punched the number into the address book before he forgot it.
He looked up. The girl had moved away. She was swapping derisive snorts with the others, all of them throwing looks his way.
‘What’s your name?’ he called out.
‘Fuck you.’
‘It was you who picked up that collie from the Dog and Cat Home, wasn’t it?’
She gave him a blank stare.
‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’
‘You know what the Mackies did to that dog, don’t you?’
There seemed to be a flicker of something in her eyes.
‘Look, just fuck off, will you?’
He gazed one last time at the burning house, then turned and walked back to the car.
31
With his mind blank and Jeanie licking his hand, he flicked to the number. Pressed ‘call’. Stared at the steering wheel listening to the ring. The sound was muffled through the bandages over his ear. Sounded like he was deep underwater, trying to make contact with the surface.
Five rings then an abusive answer-machine message. He hung up. He stared out the window. The firemen were beginning to get the blaze under control, but the house was a wreck of sodden, burnt wood and plaster, charred masonry, wisps of burning debris fluttering up into the sky, plumes of black smoke winking out the stars.
What would he do if someone destroyed his home and everything in it? What would the Mackies do?
He noticed the crack in the windscreen. The one Rose had pointed out all those days ago. It was bigger now, or was he imagining it? No, definitely bigger, not just a small crystal star, it had grown into a sword shape with one long blade pointing down towards the bonnet, indicating the place of impact. If he didn’t do something, the whole windscreen would split eventually.
He called Adele. That same submarine buzz in his ear, as if his brain was swimming in syrup. Five rings then her recorded voice. He hung up.
The crack in the windscreen seemed to be growing in front of his eyes, dancing in the flickering light from the blaze. He reached out and touched it, imagined pushing his fists through the glass to the outside world. There was a sting of electricity in his fingers at the feel of cold glass. He examined his hands. The palms were a mess of scars and scabs.
He turned the key and the engine coughed into life. Mum’s reliable old banger, still going after all this time. At this rate it would go on for ever, outlive him. But he had to get that crack fixed. When all this was over, he would do it then. Look after Mum’s old car.
His hands were shaking as he touched the steering wheel and the handbrake. The engine’s stuttering life mingled with his own. He pictured Frank Whitehouse lying in the road, crimson in the tail lights. The car revved and jolted as he threw it into gear and turned round, heading back towards town.
The traffic lights seemed to sparkle and shift as he drove, the headlights of each approaching car dazzling and hurting his eyes, like staring at the sun. He concentrated on his hands touching the wheel. He hunkered down and blinked out at the night.
It wasn’t far to drive. Weird to think these two families lived so close to each other, yet in such different neighbourhoods. One mixing with solicitors and councillors, the other with scum, one at the top of the pile, the other trying to get there. Separated by less than a couple of miles in the Southside of a city that had perfected the us-and-them society. One dead man, one shooting, one slaughtered dog, one torched home. And more to come.
He turned into Blacket Place. Dark, quiet. No one on the street. He parked across the road from the house. Switched the engine off and listened to the ticking of the metal as it lost heat.
Jeanie had her nose in his lap. He stroked her a few times, felt the ribs.
‘Stay here, girl.’
He opened the door and she shot out, scrambling across him in a fluster and darting across the road. She was squatting for a piss by the time he locked the car door. He clicked his fingers and she came, then he turned into the Whitehouses’ drive.
The same room light was still on, the curtains closed. As he approached he realised that the front door was wide open. He stopped. No activity, no sign of life. Just an open door.
He walked up the steps to the doorway and stopped. Peered inside. Nothing. He stood for a moment listening to the pulse in his brain. Jeanie sniffed at some plants by the door.
Then he heard something. A scrape and a muffled thump. A voice, a female voice. Not talking, not crying out, but something else, an insistent kind of moan. The sound drew him inside as if mesmerised. He stood in the hallway and moved his head to work out where the noise was coming from. Damn these stupid bandages over his ears. He heard the clack of Jeanie’s claws on the floor, then it stop as she reached the rug. He listened again for the noise. There, to his left. It was coming from the room. The door was closed and light seeped out from underneath, splaying short fingers into the hallway.
He walked towards the door. The noise got louder. Definitely a woman moaning. In distress. He swallowed hard and put his hand on the doorknob. Turned it slowly and pushed. Stepped warily into the room.
Adele.
She was lying on the floor, on her side, tied to a chair with some kind of electrical cable. She was facing the other way, so she hadn’t seen him. He looked round the room. No one else. Everything seemed normal except for a table lamp lying on the rug next to a glass of spilt red wine.
Billy scurried over and touched her on the shoulder. She squealed, flinching away from his touch. She whipped her head round and her eyes widened. She had something stuffed in her mouth, gaffer-taped in place.
‘It’s OK,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll untie you. Hold on.’
She increased her efforts to speak, but Billy couldn’t make out anything.
‘Wait,’ he said.
He ripped the tape off her face and pulled at the material till it came out of her mouth. Socks. She gasped and wheezed, sucking in air and working her jaw. She had a wild look.
‘They took Ryan. They came in here and beat me up and took him.’
