spun it through his fingers with a fair bit of skill — must’ve been playing with it since he put down his rattle. I booted it away from the neds and they hauled up on the kerb, giving us the Vs and dropping trackies to flash arse cheeks.
‘Ah, the youth of today,’ said Mac, ‘another beautiful crop of schemie fodder in bloom… Fair gladdens the heart.’
I’d read recently that the cost of a home round here was less than one-tenth of what it was in the New Town. Of all the property-obsessed ramblings I’d read since our real estate tanked, this one caused me the most surprise: I was completely stunned that property round here was worth fuck all.
I parked on the street. Usual jumped into Mac’s lap. ‘Chrissake, beast… Trying to end me there?’ The dog planted a wet nose on Mac’s face, followed by a wet tongue. I laughed it up.
‘Better take him in, don’t want to give the local young crew any ideas about snafflin’ him for a pit.’
Mac let out a growl. The dog pinned down his ears: he got them ruffled. ‘Och, I’m only messing with you,’ said Mac.
As we got out the cold bit. I buttoned my coat and made for the front door of the weather-beaten concrete block. Who would call this a home? The windows were rotting away on the ground floor and yellowed net curtains, blackening with damp at their corners, flapped behind cracked panes. There was a light burning inside but apart from that there was no sign of life.
Mac picked a torn bin liner from the lawn. The empty Cally Special tins inside were frozen solid — never made it to the tip. He dropped the lot on a beat-up old fridge that sat by the house, shook his head. ‘Joint’s more than a wee bit neglected, eh.’
I scanned the street. ‘Take a look about — not exactly fucking Peyton Place.’
‘Aye, but this one’s the pick o’ the lot.’ He kicked the fridge door shut.
A bloke from the next garden, face wrapped in a Rangers scarf, leaned over the fence. His donkey jacket was about three sizes too big for him; he looked like he was fighting it for survival. ‘You after Big Ian?’ As he spoke he tugged his scarf down, revealed a mouth twisted to one side, a nose spewing grey hair.
I turned. ‘Yeah… seen him about?’
A tut, splutter. ‘You from the bookies or the buroo?’ I didn’t answer; gave him the once-over look his type are used to. He went on: ‘Nah, haven’t seen him the day. He was makin’ a fair clatter last night but haven’t seen hide nor hair all day.’
Mac cut in: ‘Clatter?’
The old gadgie tugged back his sleeve, brought a scrawny wrist out, scratched his hairline with a dirty fingernail. ‘Probably had a bucket in him. Came in rattling about after a night at the howf… He’s lost it since he got punted from the work.’
We’d seen that for ourselves at the factory. I scanned the house; there was no movement now. ‘What happened? I mean, do you know why he lost his job?’
The bloke’s eyes lit. He ran a manky mitt over his mouth: thought he might get a few sheets for his trouble. ‘He was on the wagons, had a big rig out there every night,’ he pointed to the street, ‘used to wash it and polish it when he wasn’t on a run… Fair buggered up his heid when that got taken off him.’
He was at it — nothing to offer. ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ I said.
Mac was growing impatient. He edged towards the building, pointed at the door. I gave the neighbour a wide berth as I went. He called out, ‘Eh, got a smoke there, pal?’
I dug in my pocket and gave him a Marlboro.
He looked at it with derision. ‘That all you got?’
‘Do I look like a fucking mobile tobacconist?’
He took the tab, sparked up. He coughed away, hacked a gob of phlegm in the garden. I thought, Was I expecting too much looking for a thank-you?
At the door Mac leaned over and knocked hard. The crumbling paintwork lost a few flakes — like it mattered. There was no answer. Mac knocked again, a rusting bell by the door got a hit, then he looked through the letter box. He seemed to dwell there, breathed deep a few times then stood back.
‘Anything?’ I said.
His face looked pained. He pointed. ‘Take a look for yourself.’
The place was a shambles, arse over tit. A picture on the wall — looked like the classic Green Lady — was squint. A folding table, couple of chairs, had also been upended. One of the table legs had been snapped. The phone had been pulled out the wall and what looked like a collection of souvenir tat — cheap figurines and plastic snow- domes — had been spilled on the floor. I couldn’t see any further than the living room door because a coat stand had been rammed into the plasterboard wall — a blue anorak and a bust brolly were blocking my view.
‘Duly turned over, I’d say.’
Mac agreed, tugged the dog’s lead and headed round the back. The driveway skirting the edge of the property was blackened with oil and heavy tracks. A rainbow of spills covered the path and burst, worn tyres sat against the gable end of the house. On the back wall, patches of pebbledash had fallen out, exposing brickwork beneath. One of the gutters hung loose, rattling in the wind and threatening to fall.
Mac kicked at a couple of fallen tiles on the path. ‘I’m thinking this geezer’s no’ been keeping up appearances that well.’
‘You think?’
The back door had a large frosted-glass window that had been put in. The nicotine-stained blinds on the inside crashed against the frame with every belt of cold wind that came along. The door frame had been booted; wood splinters littered the step. Mac and I looked at each other, but said nothing. I pushed the door and stepped through. As I walked in, the broken glass crunched under the soles of my Docs. I turned to Mac. ‘Pick up the dog or he’ll cut his paws.’
We walked in slowly, cautiously. It was freezing inside; the wind and rain and snow had got in through the smashed window and soaked the linoleum, made it slippy underfoot. The first room we came to was the kitchen. A newish-looking fridge door hung on one hinge and two large shelves had been pulled off the wall. A stack of pots and plates, obviously once resident on the shelves, had been thrown on the ground. A mop handle had been snapped off; I couldn’t see the missing portion but wondered about that.
It was all eerily quiet. Far too quiet. Was beginning to wonder what we’d come to. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ I said.
As I spoke, Mac returned fire: ‘And I don’t like the look of this…’ He pointed to the hallway leading from the kitchen: along the magnolia woodchip was a streak of blood. It ran almost the full length of the hallway and sat three inches thick at its widest point.
‘Fucking hell. Lead on.’
As we walked into the hall Usual started to sniff at the air, he struggled in Mac’s arms. ‘Settle, boy.’
The door to the living room sat open about half a foot but as I tried to push it something was blocking it on the other side. ‘It’s stuck,’ I said. I could see into the room: the television screen had been smashed and lay in shards on the carpet. Time-warped teak chipboard units had been pulled over, their contents scattered everywhere. A carriage clock had been bounced off the wall, its face smashed. What caught my attention the most, though, was the splatter marks. They covered everything. Red to black. I knew at once it was more blood. Lots more.
‘Give it a push,’ said Mac.
‘I am fucking pushing it… Something’s blocking it on the other side.’
Mac weighed in, between us we heaved enough of a gap to get through. Behind the door was an armchair. Sat in it, his back to us, was a man. Stood behind him, we could only see the top of his head — black hair, some male-pattern baldness, a streak of blood. He wasn’t moving.
‘Oh, fuck,’ said Mac, ‘what have we got ourselves into?’
We looked further into the room, copped an eyeful. It was clear what had went on: there had been a serious working-over in here. The dirty-beige carpet was thick with blood; the castors on the armchair squelched in it as we pressed our way past.
As we walked into the middle of the room, the dog struggled in Mac’s arms again. He held him tight. Patted him quiet. Usual was anxious, unsettled. He wasn’t alone.
As we turned to face the bloke in the chair my guts turned. It was Ian Kerr — could make that out, but only just. He’d been beaten, and badly marked with some kind of chib. I’d say there’d been an attempt at gouging at his
