I’ll make sure the ship sinks. All you need to do is get in the lifeboat when I give you the nod.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Fitz, let’s put Billy’s death aside for a minute. There’s one thing you can tell me that means nothing to anyone except me.’
‘The old fellah?’
‘I need to know what happened to Milo.’
Fitz took off his hat, smoothed down his crown. ‘I’m afraid, that’s one you’ll never get to the bottom of.’
‘There’s a connection. You know it, and I sure as hell know it.’
‘I’m not saying there isn’t, but it could well have been an accident that got covered up. Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have — these people cover their tracks, it’s what they do.’
‘So, that’s it? Another fucking suicide verdict.’
‘Misadventure, is the term,’ said Fitz, as he looked to the sky.
The urge for justice and revenge ratcheted up inside me.
‘Who’re the two bufties in there, bloke with a moustache and his soft-shoe shuffling mate?’
‘Matching beer guts?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s Collins and Roberts. Why?’
‘They’ve promised me a second round. I need to get moving on this or I’m finished. It’s now or never, Fitz.’
He peered into the street, took his hands out of his police-issue overcoat, pointed at me. ‘I swear by the Holy Mother, if this comes back to haunt me, I’ll cut yer throat.’
I’d had so many threats lately one more wasn’t going to scare me. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘There’s a racket — you know about that.’
‘The girls from Eastern Europe.’
‘Yes. But it goes deeper than you can imagine.’
I’d seen so much already. It would have to be something to beat a wolf in a glass cage, but I played along, said, ‘Try me.’
‘Billy had been, oh… what’s the word, procuring girls for some of the top brass.’
‘Police — the Chief Constable?’
Fitz, raised his eyebrows. ‘Higher than that.’
‘What?’
‘I tell you, when this comes out, heads will more than roll.’
I wasn’t convinced. As if this kind of thing hadn’t been going on for ever. I couldn’t believe Billy got offed because he had some top-flight customers. Public execution just wasn’t their style.
‘Who is it, Fitz?’
He wiped his face. ‘I don’t know yet.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a conspiracy of silence. There’s names being thrown about like you would not believe, but no one’s putting their finger on it. I’ve got it narrowed down all right.’
‘To where?’
Fitz took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds. ‘The First Minister’s Cabinet.’
43
I went back to the Wall and showered. Tried to keep the spray on my mouth for as long as I could bear. The pain seared my gums. Burns knew what he was talking about when he wrote of ‘the venom’d stang that shoots tortured gums alang’.
I hit the painkillers. Double-strength jobs, two fiery arrows on the pack to emphasise the point. As I waited for them to kick in I dressed. Faded cords from the late eighties. We’d been through a lot together but they’d held in there. Lost a few belt loops and carried some sheen on the arse and knees. But I wasn’t trying to make any statement with them, other than, ‘Hey I’m comfortable, get over it.’ Finished the look off with an old grey Levi’s sweatshirt, soft as down. It sat under a blue checked lumberjack shirt, what the Seattle Sub Pop guys called ‘a flannel’.
I checked myself in the mirror. I looked like a Nirvana roadie. Then I opened my mouth. Nup, I looked like a Redneck, some trailer trash from the Georgia woods. I heard the cries of Ned Beatty in Deliverance, as the hillbilly shouted, ‘Scream like a pig, boy.’
I was out of gel. Most of my day-to-day stuff was at Hod’s, but I didn’t want to put in an appearance there until I’d checked in again with Col. I knew Amy would stick about there and I didn’t want her to see me with missing teeth and a set of racoon eyes. I’d already fired off a quick text, just to let her know they’d let me out, but I needed to switch off my phone afterwards. She was in safe hands with Hod, but had become more of a worry to me now.
I ran my fingers through the few strands of hair that sat up on the top of my head. Could do with cropping I thought. Maybe make a trip to see Mac again. He might still have the shooter, after all.
I tried to down a pint of water, but the effort was too much. I needed alcohol to stop my nerves rattling. This felt like the longest period I’d been without my drug of choice for at least three years.
I needed to go on a skite. Picked out all the familiar indicators. The room closed in on me. I paced up and down. Visualised a row of creamy pints lined up on a bar. My mouth dried over.
It’s always been about breaking the monotony for me. The skite’s just a purge. Life piles up, you get fed up, and so you go out and try to change everything. That’s where the alcohol helps. You want to be a different person, you want to blow your world up. And for a little while, alcohol lets you believe this is possible. Time stops as you rattle from pub to pub in an alcoholic haze. Slowly, the world as you know it ceases to exist. You’ve broken the cycle, you’re off the trodden path. It’s what it’s all about, keeping normality at bay. For a little while anyway.
The next day it’s like being woken by a ghost when shame settles on you. You wonder why you did it. Fear the consequences. Fear you’ll do it again. But, you’ve broken that cycle of boredom. And no matter how much you abhor the person staring back at you from the mirror, you know you’ll do it again because it works like a charm.
I strolled down to the bar. Col polished glasses with a small towel. ‘Holy Mother of God, what’s happened to you?’
I waved him off, said, ‘Pint. Chaser.’
The old gadgie with the drinker’s nose stood in place, smelling of piss, he approached me and spoke: ‘Howya doing, pal?’
‘You still here? Becoming a bit of a fixture.’
‘Better than a bit of a prick.’
I’d no comment on that.
Col placed my drinks down in front of me. ‘On the house.’
‘Thanks.’
I drank deep. Belted back the chaser.
‘Man, that’s a thirst and a half,’ said the gadgie.
I felt in no mood for conversation, said, ‘Is that piss I smell?’
He got the hint, said, ‘When you get to my age, no matter how much you shake, the last drop always ends up in your pants. Remember that.’
Dumbfounded, I watched him walk off and take a seat at someone else’s table.
‘What’s happening to the clientele?’ I asked Col.
‘He’s a lost soul.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
Col flicked the bar towel over his shoulder. ‘You look like you’ve had an accident.’
My mouth was too occupied to reply. I motioned to the empty shot glass, sunk back the pint.
