‘Fitz, later, later… I need to know about that stuff I asked you about the Corrado.’
‘Dury, ’tis not news ye’ll like.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, hold on…’ I heard rustling; he moved some papers on his desk, opened a drawer, closed it again. ‘Right, here we are.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Well, there’s twenty, no, twenty-plus, in the immediate vicinity.’
‘You shit me?’
‘Popular car.’
‘Fucking hell. They’ve stopped making them — how popular can it be?’
‘Ah, now, ’tis what ye might call popular with a certain section of the community.’
‘Fucking boy racers.’
‘Ye wouldn’t be far wide of the mark there, Dury.’
I rested my head on my hand. I didn’t have the time to check twenty addresses for these little pricks. ‘Fitz, any listed in Sighthill, or Wester Hailes?’
I heard pages turning, then, ‘Not a one.’
‘Tell me you jest.’
‘Would I ever?’
I didn’t answer.
On a hunch I wondered if Mark Crawford was connected, said, ‘What about Ann Street?’
‘You kidding? Fuck no, there’s none in Ann Street.’ He changed tone, seemed almost smug. ‘By the way, I hear that was a fine performance ye pulled off earlier.’
‘Which one?’
‘Would be the whole thing.’ A laugh. ‘Haven’t ye McAvoy running about with a face like a Halloween cake!’
‘That would be bad, right?’
Laughter. Uproarious. ‘Oh, feck yes, Dury… Did ye ever, when ye were a chiseller, catch a wasp in a bottle? Well, isn’t that the spit of his like this afternoon, man. I’d say ye had him rattled! Rattled indeed, no mistake.’
I thanked Fitz for the 3D image, even though it was well and truly the last thing I wanted to hear right now.
‘Well, Dury, I will tell ye this: McAvoy is no man to cross…’
‘You said that already.’
‘From what I’m hearing about him now, I didn’t know the half of it.’
‘Go on.’
‘No danger… not on the line. We’ll talk soon.’
He hung up.
We were pulling off the last road from civilisation, into the badlands.
‘Where to?’ asked Hod.
I pointed to a shop. Outside there was a girl, must have been no more than fifteen. She wore a bright pink boob tube and a black leather mini. Her face was aflame with acne, still visible through layer upon layer of slap.
‘You sure?’
‘Oh, yeah. You better take off too.’
‘You what?’
‘I mean it, fuck off home. I want peace from you. Prepare yourself for the pit fight. Conserve your energy.’
He shook his head. ‘Right, okay.’
Hod revved the engine, clocked the girl walking over.
I joked, ‘Your luck’s in, you might have company.’
He wound down the window, hollered, ‘Fuck off, you! Now. Back the way you came.’
The girl raised a single digit, fired it at Hod.
I had to smile as I saw him furiously wind up the window, mutter, ‘Dirty hoor.’
Chapter 40
I rocked up to the shop. Well, it sold stuff; similarities to any other shop I knew ended there. The outside was secured with hardboard and tin sheets. Above the door, razor wire. Inside you’d have to go back in time to Stalinist Russia to get the full flavour. The joint averaged three items to a shelf. Behind a barred-up counter, an old Sikh eyed me with suspicion. I don’t believe he thought I was a shoplifter, more like lost.
‘How goes it?’
No reply.
‘Wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a few lads, one with a flashy motor, a Corrado.’
Still no reply.
‘Do you speak English?’
A sigh, nod.
‘Great, we’re making progress.’ I heard someone scuttle in through the door behind me. ‘Like I say, I’m after these boys… You see, I need them to help me out with a bit of a problem.’
A young girl shoved a bag of dog biscuits under the bars, asked for twenty Berkeley. The Sikh put the lot in a bag, sorted out some change. Never opened his mouth.
The girl stared straight at me. She had a split lip and the biggest eyebrow piercing I’d ever seen. Under her arm was a white poodle, struggling for dear life.
‘Can I help you, love?’ I said.
She spazzed her mouth at me, said, ‘You’re fuckin’ radge.’
‘Yeah, and nice to meet you too.’ I turned to the Sikh. ‘This car, have you seen it?’ I was losing the rag now, slipping quickly beyond frustration. ‘It’s white and it has these really unusual wheels, they’re gold mags, y’know, like alloys.’
The girl slammed the door and the Sikh turned away from me. Went to sit in the corner of his little cage, topped a Mr Men mug up with Grant’s.
I leaned over, yelled, ‘Thank you, much appreciated.’ I didn’t envy the guy his job, or, by the kip of him, his life. I knew Sikhs were supposed to stay on the dry bus, but I suppose out here that was just too tall an order. I turned, gave him a wave, and headed for the door.
The first thing to hit me on the outside was the revving of a seriously high-powered engine. The next was the girl from the shop jumping into a Corrado and throwing the poodle on the back seat. After that something like a baseball bat took the legs off me and I fell to the ground, copping kicks and punches at all angles.
‘Can you hear me, Mr Dury?’
I heard the voice, but didn’t recognise it. I opened my eyes and latched on to an indistinct set of features, some burst blood vessels on the nose, heavy bags under the eyes.
‘Mr Dury, are you with us?’
The paramedic sat me up. Someone else put a red blanket around my shoulders. My head throbbed; I saw some blood on the pavement.
‘Quite a doing you got… You’re lucky Mr Singh stepped in.’
I looked over the paramedic’s shoulder. The old Sikh was returning to his shop. ‘Him?’
‘Oh aye — saw them off, then called us.’ He reached in his bag, took out a vial. ‘Now, tip your head back. This might sting a bit.’
‘Ahh, Jesus Christ.’ I jumped back, rocked the ambulance on its wheels.
‘I told you it would hurt.’ A wipe with cotton wool, some gauze attached to my head. ‘That’s going to need stitching. Come on, let’s get you in the back of the vehicle.’
