‘Want something for it?’ Charlie pulled a couple of blister packs from his pocket, one painkillers, the other sedatives. He handed both to Billy.
‘Two of each should sort you out. Just keep the packs, in case you need more.’
Billy looked at the packets in Charlie’s hand. ‘Keeping me doped up and out of trouble, yeah?’
Charlie gave a mock reproachful look. ‘Just trying to help my wee brother out. Is that a crime?’
Billy took the packs and pocketed them.
‘Maybe I should go for a lie down.’
‘Now you’re talking, it’ll all seem better once you’ve had some proper rest.’
Billy turned and went upstairs, leaving Charlie to clean up the mess. At the top of the stairs he stopped. He looked back down. The Wu-Tang Clan had started up already, quieter this time.
He walked to Charlie’s room, went in and opened a drawer in the bedside table. It was full of medication. He rifled through the drawer until he spotted a brand name he knew was methamphetamine — Anadrex. They’d laughed about it in a club once because it was one letter away from toilet roll. He popped two pills out and swallowed them, then stuck the rest of the packet in his pocket and left.
In the hall he picked up his bag, pulled the strap over his head and let himself out of the front door, making sure to pull it closed softly so that it made no sound.
9
He kidded himself that he was just out for some air, but he knew where he was going.
His feet took him to the end of Rankeillor Street and he turned left into the bus fumes and noise of South Clerk Street. Kebab houses, corner shops, pubs and greasy spoons, the pavement in the early evening teeming with people heading home from work or out to the pub. He walked until South Clerk Street became Newington Road, past cafes and wine shops, smarter flats towering above, cleaner stonework and larger windows.
He turned left on Salisbury Road. Bigger buildings, Victorian built, darker stone, walled gardens, a hotel and a medical centre. He felt a familiar chemical rush, the same flood of energy he’d had the night before, a comforting aliveness, a welcome loss of control.
At the end of Salisbury Road he stopped. The Commie Pool was across the road, shrouded in scaffolding and infested with cranes. Behind that Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat glimmering in the early evening sun, the volcanic rock brought to life by the low, angular rays.
To his right was The Crags pub, a large Georgian sprawl, part of a chain aimed at students. He’d avoided it as a student, thinking himself above the sports clubs and booze cruise brigades. Anyway, he’d gone to Napier across town, mostly populated by locals, while Edinburgh Uni down the road seemed a magnet for a certain kind of braying English loudmouth. Zoe had done English literature there, then Napier’s magazine journalism postgrad, where Billy had somehow hooked up with her, despite feeling she was out of his league. He still had a lingering niggle that she was slumming it with him.
Charlie had run with the arrogant medical student gangs for a while, but even he’d got tired of the constant one-upmanship and lager-fuelled bravado. Not that he didn’t still come out with his fair share of bullshit. But maybe he was right about Mum, about last night. Maybe it was the right thing to do. Didn’t make it any easier.
Billy realised he was grinding his teeth and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He could feel the tiny particles of enamel and skin in his mouth. It was incredibly dry, his tongue too big and swollen.
He skittered into The Crags car park. Stopped at the door. Over to his left was a beer garden, a spread of sticky picnic benches sitting on concrete slabs. Just beyond that was a five-foot wall, topped by a latticed wooden fence, barbed wire snagged along its top edge. He knew exactly where he was and why he was here. Over that wall was the Whitehouses’ garden.
He stared at the barbed wire for a moment then shuffled into the pub.
It was quiet, a few punters scattered around on the sofas. A young barman in regulation pub T-shirt flicked through the Evening Standard. Must’ve hit the streets not long ago. He closed the paper as Billy approached.
‘Pint of Stella,’ Billy said.
The man started pouring.
‘Mind if I take a quick look at your paper?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
Billy turned the paper to face him on the bar. edinburgh crime lord dead. Rose had the headline she wanted. The standfirst named Frank and suggested suspicious circumstances. He scanned the familiar story, looking to see if there had been any edits before going to print. The picture was a dramatic shot of Salisbury Crags, police tape and forensics in white overalls in the foreground.
‘Quite something, eh?’ the barman said as he clunked the pint down.
‘Yeah.’
‘Right on our doorstep.’
Billy felt a tightening across his chest as he paid for the Stella and passed the paper back. He struggled to breathe until he was out of the door and heading for the beer garden, staring at the back wall of the Whitehouse place.
He slumped on a bench and gulped at his pint. He had a fierce thirst. One of the other tables outside was occupied — four girls in hockey club sweatshirts and ponytails. They watched him for a moment then went back to their conversation. He stared at them, then looked over at Salisbury Crags for a moment. Then he turned and looked at the wall.
His left leg was trembling. He put a hand on it but it didn’t stop. He spilled some beer on his jeans, then got up‚ glugging his pint‚ and walked towards the wall. He tried to put on a nonchalant amble, like he was just stretching his legs. He walked the length of the wall to the back of the beer garden and pretended to study a sign detailing the rules and regulations for the pub car park. The hockey girls occasionally glanced over at him.
He stood there drinking till his glass was almost empty, then turned and began sauntering back. Took a final few gulps of beer, his hand shaking as he lifted the pint to his lips. Put the empty glass down on a table then began striding towards the Whitehouses’ back wall. The hockey girls were watching him but he didn’t turn round.
He got to the wall and grabbed the rough stonework, hoisting himself up so that he was quickly on top, his body pressed against the fence there. He laid his hands carefully on the barbed wire at the top of the fence, then brought his foot up to the same level. As he put his weight on it, the fence wobbled and the wire dug into his hands. In a quick movement he heaved himself up and on to the fence, the barbs piercing the skin of his palms, the wooden lattice creaking under his weight, then he launched himself into the Whitehouses’ back garden.
He stared at his hands.
Drops of blood were forming at several small puncture wounds. He crouched down and wiped his palms on the grass. The lawn was cut short and his hands left dark streaks across the nap of the grass.
He straightened up and looked around. He could see the pond and the treehouse, one wall of the main building. The foliage of the trees dappled everything in evening sunlight.
The air was still, clogged with pollen, gangs of midges dancing in the light as he took a few steps forward. The summerhouse was to his left, sitting in a suntrap out of sight of the main house. The sun glanced off the large front window. Behind the window, he thought he saw movement.
The reflection of the sun was blinding, his head thudding. He remembered the painkillers in his pocket. He fished them out and took two, snorting phlegm into his mouth to swallow them.
He crept towards the summerhouse. As he got nearer, the angle of the reflected sunlight changed and the inside of the building was revealed. Sitting on a low, cream sofa was Adele Whitehouse, no sunglasses, hair tied back from her face, bare feet tucked under her. She had a small copper hash pipe raised to her lips, a lighter held to the bowl. Her eyes were closed and she was inhaling deeply.
Billy walked forwards, drawn by the sight of her. He was only a few yards away when she opened her eyes and turned to face him. Her right eye was bruised and discoloured. She stared at him for a long moment, then invited him in with the smallest twitch of her head.
He opened the summerhouse door and stepped inside. The air was stifling, thick with the sticky smell of skunk. He closed the door. She indicated the space on the sofa next to her. He sat down, unable to take his eyes off
