couldn’t face.
‘Shut it, Vee, I’m warning you, shut the noise up or I’ll put you through that fucking wall.’
The banging stopped.
He heard Vee sliding down the back of the door, then her tears as she sobbed at the gap above the carpet. She had been crying hysterically the night before, but that was for another reason. She probably wanted to block it out too.
‘Barry, you can’t leave me here if you’re holding… You just can’t.’
‘Is that all you’re bothered about? Eh, is it?’
Her voice lowered. ‘I need a hit, Barry… more than ever.’
‘We know why that is, don’t we.’
She snivelled, ‘Why are you doing this?’
Tierney ran the taps in the sink, trying to drown out her shrill voice. He let the sink fill up, dropped in his hands, then splashed his face. He thought about dunking his head, blocking out the world, but he knew a better way.
‘I saw him, by the way,’ Tierney yelled, ‘… in case you’re interested, I saw the Deil.’
Silence.
Slowly, the sound of Vee shuffling on the other side of the door came. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me all right.’ He smiled to himself: he had the upper hand again. She was always easier to manipulate, to control, when he had something to hold over her. He couldn’t recall ever having anything as weighty as this, though.
‘You told him about…?’
‘Of course I didn’t fucking tell him. Do you think I’m mental?’
Vee stumbled over the words: ‘Th-then how… I mean, what did you say?’ She sounded worried now; he could hear the fear pitched in her voice.
‘I told him what we agreed.’
She had no response to that — of course she didn’t, she couldn’t argue with him. Tierney heard Vee start to move again. She was rocking, her back pressing on the other side of the door. With each movement the sound carried pressure towards him. He felt the walls in the small bathroom closing him in. He peered at the bath, scrubbed clean for once. Tierney couldn’t remember the bath looking so clean — it was bright white, sparkling. He looked in. He didn’t want to, but felt compelled to. A smell of bleach caught in his nostrils. He couldn’t stay there any more, opened the door. ‘Get up… See to that kid!’
Vee held on to Tierney’s leg. ‘Did you score? Did you? Did you score, Barry?’
He shook her off, lashed out with his foot, caught her on the solar plexus. She gasped for breath, fumbling on the carpet with her fingers splayed as if she was looking for something. ‘Barry… I need some. Don’t, don’t…’ She seemed to find strength from somewhere and raised herself to face him. She grabbed the sleeves of Tierney’s hoodie. ‘Please, please, Barry… I’ll do anything.’
‘Settle that fucking kid.’
‘I will. I will. I promise… Just give me something.’
The sight of her disgusted him; he wanted her away from him. He didn’t want to look at her ever again. Her face reminded him of everything that was wrong with his life and why he needed to escape from it. Tierney delved into his pocket and pulled out a wrap. ‘There, get fired into that… Get out my sight.’ He watched her scurry like a rodent for scraps, padding the floor on her hands and knees. When she located the wrap her face changed instantly. She became suffused with desire. All the previous whining and begging had been for show, Tierney knew it. He hated her for it. When he was on the programme, a key worker had told him that everyone hates the one thing in others that they hate in themselves. He hadn’t understood her, had asked her to explain and was told it was like living with someone who pointed out your flaws all the time: they dragged you to the mirror and showed you them. When he understood, he hated Vee more; she made him hate himself, what he’d become.
Tierney knew it didn’t pay you to think. After all he’d been through, after all he’d seen, he didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to think about who he was or who Vee was because he knew they were both nothing. It was better not to think. Better to forget. To block it all out.
He took the remaining wrap from his pocket and went through to the front room. The curtains were drawn and the place sat in semi-darkness. He could hear the baby crying where she lay in the top drawer of the dresser, but he didn’t look to that corner of the room. He climbed onto the mattress and rolled up his sleeve. A burnt spoon and a lighter fell onto the floor as he manoeuvred. He picked them up, collected the rest of his works and bit the leather belt between his teeth.
As his eyes closed, nothing mattered any more.
Chapter 6
When he was still in uniform, barely twenty and still pimply, Brennan had made his first visit to a Muirhouse crime scene. It was nothing like he’d imagined, growing up on the west coast and watching The Sweeney. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The job, life. It was supposed to be better.
‘I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight,’ Wullie Stuart had told him.
They said young Brennan fancied himself back then, said he was full of it. A typical Weegie, even though he was from Ayr. Anyone west of Corstorphine was a Weegie to this lot. ‘I can handle it,’ he told the detective sergeant.
‘Are you sure, son? There’s no shame in holding back.’
‘I can handle it.’
The crime scene was in a high-rise. There had been a call from neighbours about a domestic. Loud roars, shouting and screaming. The usual. Uniform had attended and then CID had been called. Brennan had pestered the officers to get a hand-up. He wanted to learn at their elbow — it was the best way to learn anything, his father had told him that.
‘Okay, then. But take a hold of this.’
Brennan looked at the sergeant’s hand. He was holding out an old Tesco carrier.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Your lunch.’
‘But I’ve had my lunch, sir.’
‘Exactly.’
When realisation dawned, Brennan shook his head. ‘You’re all right… Keep it.’
‘Okay.’ Wullie nodded. ‘Okay.’
The young uniform followed the detective sergeant up the grimy stairwell. It smelled of piss and stale tobacco. The walls were daubed with graffiti, large illiterate swabs for or against Hibs and Hearts, numbers to call for blow jobs, threats of violence. None of it fazed the twenty-year-old, but something told him he was about to enter a new realm. He knew he was going to see something he’d never seen before. Would it change him? No, never. How could it? He was well equipped for anything they threw at him.
The door had been booted — the hinges hung on bent screws. Two panels had been caved in — knuckles maybe? He’d have said a shoulder or a firm kick, but there was blood smeared there. Knuckles, then, so a junkie perhaps… someone too out of it to know they’d broken every bone in their hand putting in the door. There was more blood inside. And a stench. A smell Brennan had never encountered before. It filled the nostrils and seemed to get right inside your head. He’d never known a smell like it; it came loaded with suggestions. It wasn’t an acrid smell or an uncomfortable smell, one that made you want to put your nose into your sleeve, but it wasn’t something he’d like to keep regular contact with. It unnerved him. Years later, he’d acknowledge it as the smell of poverty. The smell of lost hope, of squalor and abandonment and dissipation. Of all those things, and something else, something more sinister.
‘Oh, Christ!’
Brennan knew his mouth had drooped. He felt dumb, unable to move.
‘Get down!’
