‘I bet.’
Andy leaned against the wall, rested a foot on the storm drain, a faraway look forming in his eye. ‘I really was very fond of… Michael.’
‘You said.’
He held his smoke like a dart, then pressed it in his mouth. As he spoke, the cigarette rose and fell with his words. ‘He was very good to me, took me off the wagons when my back went.’ He smiled, the cigarette wobbled at its tip. ‘Even kept me on through all this nonsense.’
I put my shoulder on the wall, faced him. ‘Nonsense?’
Andy seemed to clam up. He took the tab out his mouth and stubbed it on the sole of his shoe. ‘Aye well, we’ve no work.’ He put the half-dowped tab behind his ear. ‘So that’ll be you off now.’
I watched him but said nothing. He knew what I was thinking, and why I was there. Two more workers came out of the factory. They spoke in Czech to each other, laughed and passed out the tabs.
‘I have to be getting back.’ Andy’s breath came white against the cold air.
‘Okay,’ I said.
He leaned over, lowered his voice: ‘Look, I’ve nothing to tell you.’
‘I hear you.’
‘I’m serious… I have a family to think of too.’
I dropped my gaze, said, ‘We’ve all got families, Andy. My brother had a family; Ian Kerr had one too.’
The two Czechs pulled up beside us, nodded to their gaffer.
Andy raised his voice: ‘So, thanks for dropping by. I’m sorry we’ve no work for you.’ He took me by the arm to the edge of the car park. I watched his gaze shift edgily, left to right, as he walked. ‘The backshift comes in a couple of hours. Give me five minutes to sort them out and then I’ll see you over there.’ He pointed to a boozer — it was old school, proper Edinburgh.
I thanked him: ‘I won’t forget this.’
I moved the car off the double yellows; even in an industrial area, you couldn’t be guaranteed the ticketers wouldn’t be out — it had become a real cash cow for the city. I got parked on a side street. Children were throwing snowballs all about, young kids, only about seven or eight. They sang a bawdy old rhyme:
Ole, ole, ole,
Tits in the trolley,
Balls in the biscuit tin.
The words came back to me from my schooldays. I used to think it was just a street saying that got passed around by the kids. Now I disinterred a deeper meaning, a significance: life was just a constant struggle, projected in our physical and mental deterioration. But even so, it was the only game in town. Graft, or go under.
I crossed the street to the drinker. A portable telly sat on the bar, no flat-screen here. The barman was watching Countdown; he could hardly drag himself away as a Geordie bloke asked for a vowel and then a consonant.
‘Can I have an orange juice, please?’ I said.
Cautious looks from a toothless jakey in a baseball cap to my left. I knew the territory: there was a time when I wouldn’t have trusted someone coming into a pub and ordering — that worst of things — a soft drink. My father would be roaring laughing in his grave.
I took my glass to a table in the corner, where I could keep an eye on the front door. I still heard Countdown blaring from the portable, the clock ticking to the end of the round.
I found a newspaper sitting on the next table, flicked through it, eyes half shut. Full of celebrity pish, no content. One story struck me though: today tattoos had officially become uncool — Nigel Havers had got one.
I sipped at my orange and watched the clock begin again on Countdown. I wondered about buying another drink when in walked Andy. He wore an old Lord Anthony ski jacket; the shiny collar was turned up, his thin shoulders poked through. He had a look about him that fitted many a Scotsman of his class and generation, the word is puggled. A lifetime spent keeping body and soul together had taken its toll. Left him worn out.
I greeted him with a nod. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A wee nippy sweetie.’
I took myself to the bar, ordered a dram. I switched off my mobi — didn’t want to disturb Andy if he started to rabbit. He scratched the stubble on his chin as I returned. ‘We no’ a bit close to home for you in here?’ I said.
He tutted. ‘Nae danger… None of that shower come in here.’
It was my experience that a workforce piled into the nearest pub after every other shift. ‘How come?’
Andy rubbed his chin again. ‘No’ allowed.’
This threw me. ‘Y’wha’?’
He took up the wee goldie, sipped. It made his eyes widen. He had very large eyes, dark, with an excess of white surrounding them, said, ‘The set-up in there is the workers get bussed in and bussed back. Bus doesn’t stop at the pub.’
I saw Andy might be ready to unburden himself, but I thought I still had some persuading to do.
He drained his glass.
‘Another?’
He pressed his lips together. The tip of his tongue darted out. ‘Aye… please, son.’
At the bar the jakey watched me order another whisky with something close to envy glowing from him. He tried to engage me in chat about Carol Vorderman having refused a cut in her million-a-year salary: ‘A fine bit ay stuff, mind… for an older woman, like.’
I blanked him. Returned to my table.
Andy kept his jacket on. I noticed there was a little snow on the shoulders; as I glanced out the window I saw another deluge had started.
‘Here you go.’
He took the glass, fired a good mouthful. ‘Slainte mhath.’
I watched the burn of the whisky settle his mind. I envied him, but knew I needed to stay the course.
‘Andy, do you know why I came to see you today?’
He nodded. ‘I have a fair idea.’
‘You strike me as a decent sort.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘Well, I know.’
He looked at me, quickly turned back to his glass.
I said, ‘Andy… my brother was murdered. I don’t know what you heard about that, but I know that something fucking shady’s going on over the road… I think Ian Kerr knew that too. I need you to help me join the dots.’
The words didn’t seem to have the impact I’d expected them to. Andy looked unfazed, but then he hadn’t seen the kip of Kerr.
He sighed. ‘I’m very sorry for your pain. Really, I am.’
I didn’t want his sympathy. ‘It’s your help I want.’
He tipped back the last of the scoosh. ‘And what about the way Big Ian went?’
‘You want them to get away with that?’
He huffed.
‘Someone wanted Kerr to stay quiet… Someone’s got a lot to lose,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’d fucking say so.’
I held back for a moment, let the thought of Ian Kerr’s death settle between us. ‘I need information about the set-up over there.’
‘What information?’
I smelt the whisky on Andy’s breath; it made my pulse race. ‘I know about the Czechs, the labour racket… Fucking hell, let’s call it what it is: slavery. And I know about Ronnie McMilne.’
The mention of the Undertaker put the shits up him, I could see that. The idea of being buried alive was universal. Something leaped in him. ‘I was on the trucks when McMilne came in…’
‘Go on.’
‘It was low-scale at first, bits and pieces added to the loads.’
