I thanked my stars for that. ‘So, then what?’
‘I went back to the pub, cashed up. I was about to go and put the shutters up when the skinhead came in, dropped a packet on the bar and walked off.’
Mac took something out of his pocket, handed it to me. It was a Marlboro packet. I opened it up — all the cigarettes were still inside, except one. It had been replaced by a long bullet, kind you put in an assault rifle.
I closed the box. ‘He gave you this for me?’
Hod nodded. ‘I opened it up and he said, “That’s for Dury”… I just flipped. I ran after him, had him in the street, grabbed his coat over his head and was weighing into him. Was battering ten bells out the cunt when the Daimler screeched up and another lump got out.’
I didn’t know what to say. I felt my spine straighten; as it did so a single bead of cold sweat ran the length of it. I reached out to Hod, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mate, I’m truly sorry. You can’t imagine how mad this makes me.’
Hod brushed away my hand, leaned over and put an eye on me. ‘Gus, don’t get mad… get fucking even.’
Chapter 18
When I broke the news about Hod to Debs she went apeshit. Her concern about how I was handling my brother’s death was now replaced by her greatest fear — that I’d soon be going the same way as him. I knew she wondered what I’d let myself in for; Christ, I did too.
‘Gus, this has got to stop,’ she yelled. ‘Now, before anyone else gets hurt.’
I put my hands on her shoulders. She was shaking with fear, hurt, maybe both. ‘It will. It will.’
‘But how? With you in the ground?’ Her face contorted, twisted into a mask of anguish and then her lips quivered as tears came.
‘No, Debs, I wouldn’t put you through that.’
‘Oh, you think you’ll have a fucking choice.’
She ran from the living room, slammed the door behind her. I thought to follow, try to explain, but I knew there was no explaining. I had let Debs down again — I wondered how much longer she would put up with it.
I took down my Crombie and the car keys.
The flat was too small for both of us when the atmosphere turned this sour. I knew things were bad now. ‘Debs, are you okay?’
No answer.
‘Debs,’ I knocked on the bedroom door, ‘… hon, I’m sorry. I know you’re sore at me.’
I heard her jump off the bed, the door jerked open. ‘Sore at you… Sore at you!.. Gus, you have no idea!’
I wanted to say something but nothing sparked in my mind. I made another weak play: ‘I’m seeing Dr Naughton tomorrow. I’m doing that for you.’
Her mouth widened, I saw her teeth white against her tongue. ‘You’re doing that for you, Gus… You’re doing that for you.’
‘I know, I only meant-’
‘You don’t know what you meant. You don’t know anything any more, Gus… All you know is how to hurt. How to feel hurt, and how to spread hurt.’
She started to sob into her hands. I dropped my coat and reached out to her. ‘Debs, come on… don’t say that.’
She only cried harder. She pushed me away with her fists and went back to the bedroom. I watched Usual come through from the living room and lie down at the door. I wanted to tell Debs she was wrong, that I wasn’t like that, but the truth was — she was right. I left her alone; she was better off without me.
I picked up my coat again.
Outside it felt colder than I ever remembered it. The air seemed to crackle in front of me as my breath touched it. My ears and nose nipped, my lips dried and hardened. As I walked to the car the icy surface of the pavement crunched underfoot, the frost sticking to the soles of my Docs. I felt my knees twinge on every step as the cold blasts from the street cut at my shins.
I stood in front of Meadowbank Stadium waiting for Mac to collect me. The temperature was far too low to hang about and I was relieved when I saw him driving down in Hod’s Toyota Hilux; I raised a hand in a wave. The truck slowed, stopped in front of me. I jumped in the cab. It was warm inside, the heater blasting. Bit of Big Country blasting too. I turned it off — couldn’t face guitars that sound like bagpipes.
‘Hey, I was listening to that,’ said Mac.
I shut him down: ‘Gimme the SP.’
Mac had been trailing Davie Prentice since the night before. I needed to know what he’d found out; it could be useful for when we pulled him again. Things had started to get desperate after Andy talked and Hod got worked over. I knew I needed to move fast. Fat Davie had already whipped up a shit storm between the Undertaker and the Czechs — I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was battered about in the eye of it.
Mac spoke: ‘Well, for a kick-off, he’s got some tart up in Restalrig… A right Boaby Moore, got her set up in some rathole flat by the look of it.’
I asked for the address, stored it away.
He continued, ‘The fat prick headed off there at knocking-off time last night.’ He laughed at his unintended joke. ‘Knocking-off time — see what I did there?’
I gave him a slow hand-clap, said, ‘Go on.’
‘He was up there again this afternoon, took a carry-out from the Cantonese. Came back out with a bag of prawn crackers and a grin on his face you could have crossed the Forth on.’
‘Prawn crackers… How the other half live, eh.’
We hit Queen’s Drive. It stunned me to see people out running in this weather. At the roundabout Mac drove straight through, followed the Holyrood Park Road traffic to the lights outside the Commonwealth Pool.
‘So where is he now?’ I said.
Mac put on the indicator, turned left down Dalkeith Road. He pulled through the gears, then slammed on the anchors for another sharp left. We headed for Prestonfield Golf Course.
‘On the links.’
‘You jest… It’s six-below out.’
‘He’s on the nineteenth hole, mate.’ At Prestonfield House, Mac parked up. Davie’s big old Citroen was in the space next to us. ‘Want me to haul him out?’
‘In front of his golfing buddies… that would be unkind.’
Mac opened the door, slid out. As he was about to leave he turned back. ‘There’s something under there for you. Thought you might thank me for it.’
I ran my hand under the front seat, felt something cold: a plastic baggie. I pulled it out. Was just what I needed — had been running low on amphetamine support. I took a wrap, fired it, tucked the rest in my jacket.
A few moments later fat Davie appeared, stumbling out of the front door. Mac walked behind him, prodding him in the back with his hand. If anyone had seen this performance they would have thought Mac was a carer, mistreating some half-witted care in the community patient. Fat Davie slipped and stumbled on the scree; it might have been comical if the consequences weren’t so serious now.
I got out of the cab, called out, ‘Hope you’re feeling like a wee drive, Davie…’ Mac poked him between the shoulder blades, pointed to my side of the vehicle. As he reached me Davie hesitated, looked like bolting for the fir trees. I grabbed him by the collar. ‘Get in there, and be quick about it you little shitkicker.’
Mac got in his side of the truck. I dived in after Davie, sandwiching him between the pair of us. The speed was coursing through me. ‘Now, isn’t this cosy,’ I said. I watched Davie’s face contort; he looked first to Mac then to me before he got thrown back in his seat as the wheels spun on the scree.
‘Jesus, what are you playing at?’ he yelped.
I flicked a backhander over his flabby cheek, said, ‘Haven’t decided yet.’
As we drove, we fell into each other on the bends. We stayed silent but the air in the cab soon became foetid.
