‘That’ll be fly fishing?’
‘He’s a fly man.’
The lad unzipped his Lonsdale top, tucked a hand in and brought out a bit of paper, handed it over to Hod. ‘That’s yer map there. Have a good night, eh, mate.’
‘Oh, I think we will… I think we will.’
Chapter 45
The map took us beyond the city boundaries, deep into the countryside.
‘We’re gonna be in fucking Glasgow soon, Hod.’
‘I’m following the map.’
‘You sure about that?’
He thrust the piece of paper at me, said, ‘Check if you like.’
I didn’t bother.
I had a quarter of vodka in my inside pocket, cracked it open, tipped back a few mouthfuls. Then a few more.
Seemed to settle the thrashing in my stomach.
‘You’re not gonna lash that, are you?’ said Hod.
I held up the bottle; seemed pathetically small, said, ‘Could I? Is it possible?’
‘You could have half a dozen of them stashed about you, I wouldn’t know… I mean, what’s with the coat? It’s hardly the weather for it.’
I let that slide, tucked away the bottle.
We took the M8 for about six miles before hitting the side roads. Lots of brown-backed signposts appeared declaring we were on a ‘Tourist Route’. Official: this entire country is not for those who live in it.
After a mile or so, Hod chucked a hairpin right, hit dirt track. Heard David Byrne wail, ‘We’re on a road to nowhere’… except maybe the dark heart of the forest. Light overhead became thinner and thinner, until it was time to flick the headlamps on.
‘This is spooky shit,’ said Hod.
‘Man, not the time to be bottling on me.’
‘Bottling? Me?’
‘You just said you were spooked.’
‘I was scene-setting.’
‘Oh yeah.’
Through the forest and out the other side we hit a clearing, another dirt track. In the open I could see it had been churned up quite a bit. Deep puddles and a mush of black earth indicating some heavy traffic had passed this way recently.
‘Looks like we’re getting close.’
‘According to this,’ Hod waved the map, ‘we should be just about there.’
‘Hold up… what’s this?’
A big biffer in a black leather jacket, shaved head, unshaven face, approached. He had a moustache that would put Harley handles in the shade. As he got closer I saw he looked like the late Ollie Reed, matched him for size and sheer shit-stopping radgeness.
A hand went up. Hod braked, wound down the window. ‘All right, mate.’
Not a flicker; cold eyes. ‘What you up tae?’
‘We’re, eh… friends of the big man.’
‘Aye, spare me that shite… You got Hosie’s map?’
‘Hosie… oh, right, the wee hoodie.’ Hod held up the map.
The biffer stuck a hand through the open window. Four sovereign rings played for attention with some nasty spider’s-web tats. One inky near the wrist read CUT HERE. He grabbed the map, tucked it in his pocket then pointed out to the left: ‘Take the motor over there, by that wee clump ay trees. You can park in front ay the barn. Pit’s on the inside.’
Hod put the car in gear, raised a little wave in gratitude, then drove for the barn. ‘You see his face?’ he said.
‘The scar… fucking deadly.’
‘Never seen a Mars bar like that before.’
I knew what he meant: it wasn’t a clean cut, it was jagged. ‘What do you think, a bottle fight?’
‘Maybe a dog attack… or maybe someone just wanted him to look carved up good and proper.’
I didn’t like to think about it. I touched the barrel of the Mossberg for reassurance.
As Hod parked the car I got out, hit myself up with another blast of vodka. The bottle near emptied on me. I held it in my hand, staring at it until Hod appeared at my side and said, ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ I raised the bottle again, finished the dregs.
‘Got you in some shit that stuff, hasn’t it.’
It was a low blow, but could I fault him? It was perfectly pitched.
I threw the bottle, watched it smash on a tree, said, ‘C’mon, let’s do this.’
I put my collar up as we strode towards the barn doors. There were angry pit bulls chained to car axles that had been staked into the ground. Every one of the dogs strained to break free and attack its nearest neighbour. An Irishman stood pointing to one of them, highlighting each of its scars and regaling a slope-shouldered yoof in trackies with tales of the fights it had won.
Inside the place was hoachin. Like a cattle auction. Men stood three, four deep around the centre of the barn. Light was poor, save at the midpoint, where some old storm lanterns were suspended from the roof beams.
We edged our way closer. Suddenly the crowd seemed to disperse.
‘Are we too late?’ I asked Hod.
An old gadgie, baseball cap turned round, answered for him: ‘Utter fucking shite pagger that was. Where they got that useless wee cunt in there I’ve no idea.’
Hod smiled. ‘A mismatch?’
‘Mismatch? Fucking bloodbath — look at it.’
I got to the front of the crowd to see what he was on about. A ring, maybe fifteen feet wide, had been set up. Inside was a forty-pound snarling pit bull shaking the virtually lifeless body of what looked like the same breed. The near-dead animal had remarkably similar markings to Usual. I felt my heart pound.
I turned away. My hand raised automatically to my mouth.
From nowhere, I felt my arm knocked down. ‘Don’t make that face, Gus,’ said Hod.
The stench of blood was everywhere. I felt my guts heave. ‘Hod, this is foul.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
They separated the two dogs and the victor was raring to go again. The loser merely lay down. Exhausted and unable to move, it stared at its handler. The ground was a blanket of blood. The handler — a hardy neckless type — picked the animal up by the scruff and hauled it to a barrel in the corner of the barn.
‘What’s he gonna do with it?’ I asked Hod.
Under breath: ‘Shut up, Gus.’
I watched the guy lift the dog into the barrel and hold it down in there for a few minutes. It was only when the dog was removed, dripping with water, that I realised its reward for fighting to near-death for its handler was to be drowned.
The crowd started shouting for more, baying for blood.
‘I don’t think I can watch this,’ I said.
Hod started to get rattled. He placed his hand on my elbow. ‘You don’t think what?’
I saw another vicious pit bull — this one must have weighed fifty pounds — being led from the front of the barn. He struggled and clawed to get to the ring. His handler, a teeny lightweight in head-to-toe Adidas, struggled to hold on to him. He jerked the choke chain, yelled at him. The dog ignored all of it. He was ready to kill.
