I played over what sid had told us. It almost made sense. Maybe it made too much sense. If Mark Crawford was smart enough to hype up the young crew to do his dirty work — on the promise of a sizeable pay-off — then maybe he never needed to get his own hands dirty.
Mac spoke: ‘You’re sure the Crawford kid’s our best bet?’
‘What do you mean? He’s got the motive, we have him in the right place at the right time.’
‘Aye, right enough…’
‘No, come on, you don’t agree?’
‘I’m just not sure… I mean why would a kid in that situation — so set-up, from a good background and everything — go and off Moosey?’
‘They say Moosey killed his sister.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘You think it doesn’t fester?’
Mac ran fingers through his hair. ‘I just think we’re missing something… Something’s not right.’
I knew exactly what he meant. There was much more going on than I’d been able to uncover; there was something sinister beneath the surface. ‘Sid’s covering up for someone,’ I said.
‘Himself, probably.’
‘You think he’s got the balls to off Moosey and take fifty Gs off Rab?’
Mac found the low gears as we got back into the city centre, pulled onto North Bridge. ‘He’s a sleekit wee bastard. If the opportunity was there, I wouldn’t put anything past him.’
‘We need to keep an eye on him. He’s rattled, so his next move might be interesting.’
‘Hod’s your man for that. You need to go burst a few heads with the young crew because time’s running out.’
I agreed with him, I couldn’t rely on Sid to bring us any names. I had a plan for that, though.
‘Pull over here.’
We were outside the old Royal High. One of the most impressive buildings in the city, it had been cited as the home of the Scottish Parliament, but we’d opted instead for a half-billion-pound version of a Spanish airport, so now the place was empty, falling into dereliction. I could empathise with that.
‘What you up to?’
‘Off to see a man about a dog.’ I jumped out the van and waved Mac off with a slap on the door.
I followed Regent Road round to the steps of Calton Hill. A bus party of Japanese tourists made the schlep heavy work; I slowed down to a crawl behind them as they pointed to the dome of the Observatory. It had been stripped of its copper for the second time in six months — all that was showing was the wooden support underneath. Thought: What a place.
Up here you can see the whole city. Just about. It’s not big by any means. Do a three-sixty and you can take it all in. But from here I always feel part of the history of the place: the grey buildings, the grey skyline — makes me forget we’re in a new millennium. The National Monument just adds to it. Reminds me how Scotland’s reach has always exceeded its grasp. Think of the Parthenon: that’s what they were going for, but ran out of cash. What the city got left with was twelve stone pillars, looking decidedly out of place on a hilltop. Fitting tribute to those who died in the Napoleonic Wars I don’t think. Fitting tribute to flawed ambition? You bet.
That’s us Scots all over. We have ambition in spades; what we don’t have is confidence. The ambition only takes us so far, then we fold. Cosy up to our larger, stronger neighbour. Our history is littered with sell-outs.
When I was younger I used to come up here to get wasted. It’s a national obsession: get blootered drunk on Buckfast, or some cheapo lager, start bumping your gums about how shit the place we live in is.
When I got older, I came up here with a proper carry-out. Scotland had one decent beer of its own then — Gillespie’s. What did we do with it? We dropped it. Stopped making it for no apparent reason. It could wipe the floor with Guinness, and Murphy’s too. And we dumped it.
The thing with Scotland, the root of it all, is that we’re a defeated nation. The Scots are the Australian Aborigines of Europe. We’re the Native American Indians of round here.
I used to wish we could be more like the Irish. They did okay. Never got into bed with the English. Never caved. It’s said the difference between the Scots and the Irish is that we moan about all this kind of crap: about having the worst health record of any civilised country in the world, the worst rates of alcoholism, suicide; about being the only country to discover oil and get poorer.. Whereas the Irish, on the other hand, take action. And fair fucks to them. I mean, at least they’ve still got the knackers to fight for their country. We just handed ours over. Gave it away.
I looked out to the crags and the castle. We gave this away. We just gave all this away… for nothing.
Sometimes, when I come up here now, I’m amazed by the beauty of the city. It’s as though my memory of how the place looks gets sealed off and I’m seeing it for the first time again. It holds me. All those old turrets and spires, the hotchpotch of the Old Town, buildings leaning into each other: it seems like another city entirely.
‘God, that would be nice,’ I whispered.
Debs and I had honeymooned in Paris. I winced to remember. Back then we hadn’t two ha’pennies to rub together but after the wedding farce we needed to get away. Carded it. Good old Visatabulous. We really couldn’t care how long it took us to pay it off. It was an escape.
I caught sunlight hitting off the Observatory building, shifted focus. More and more now, I knew, I was living in the past. I knew why that was. Anniversaries will do it every time. I didn’t want to think about this anniversary. When you have one dark moment from the past that haunts, even when your past is as dark as mine, you lock it away. Hide from it.
I’d been reading a lot of Fitzgerald lately. Wasn’t a fan of his prose style, but I could identify with his Crack- up. Perhaps more than I wanted to admit. I’d read this: ‘In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.’ I checked my watch: it was approaching midday, but I knew, like Fitzgerald, it was always going to be three o’clock in the morning for me.
I pulled out my mobi. Debs’s number was on the top of my contacts list. I felt I’d put this off long enough. Pressed the call key.
Ringing.
‘Hello…’
Knew at once she’d not checked her caller ID; or worse, she’d deleted my number.
Softly, I said, ‘Hello, Debs.’
Silence.
She didn’t hang up, probably thought about it though, tried, ‘I need to talk to you.’
Her voice had a familiar timbre. It was the tone a mother uses to talk to a child who’s disappointed her time and time again. ‘Gus… that’s not a good idea.’
She caught me blindsided. I felt a flicker in my eyelids, said, ‘Hang on — I thought that’s what you wanted. You said in the cafe you wanted to talk about, y’know, stuff.’
Her voice raised: ‘That was before you were carted away by the police.’
A skirl of bagpipes started on the street below. A cloud passed over the sun and a shadow covered the ground where I sat. ‘But you sounded eager to talk. I thought you had something to get off your chest.’
Silence once more.
The gap on the line stretched out. I wondered if I should speak up.
Then, ‘Gus, that was before I had to watch you being thrown in the back of a police van… again.’
My nostrils flared, I don’t know why. Likewise, a spasm shook my head quickly. I knew my anger was ramping up. It was the injustice; it’s always the same. It’s what fires me. I could do nothing about any of what had happened and here was Debs persecuting me for it.
I felt trapped, said, ‘Not my fault, I’m-’
‘Innocent,’ she cut in, ‘yeah, I know.’
Was she being sarky? Down the line I heard a kettle whistle. Movement, cups being rattled on a kitchen surface. I didn’t think I had her full attention. I felt like I was talking into an empty phone, or to a call centre maybe, a foreign one where the people on the other end of the line sound as if they’re reading a script in a language they don’t understand a word of.
‘Debs, this isn’t a joke.’
‘Gus, I know.’ Her voice raised on the last word, then, with almost a hint of laughter creeping in, ‘Jonny told
