‘Fucksake, Davie, have you let loose?’ said Mac.
‘Be that Cantonese,’ I said. ‘Must play havoc with the digestion at your age.’
I opened the window. Davie spoke: ‘How do you know I had a Cantonese?’
I felt hyped — the drugs firing in me — I grabbed his face in my hand, squeezed hard. ‘There are many things we know about you, Davie. Many, many things… Isn’t that right, Mac?’
He crunched the gears. ‘Too fucking right.’
Fat Davie’s meaty neck started to quiver. His eyes widened on the road ahead. He looked as if he was travelling on the roof of a train, grabbing on to the seat with his fingernails. His mouth was a plughole, set too far back in his head, and his face was the wrong colour for a normally ruddy-complexioned tubster.
We drove back the way we’d come, headed for the Craigs. Mac had to drop the gas as the roads got icier. It looked dark for the time of day, the frost on the hills and the lying snow adding a surreal tint to the topography. As we climbed to the top of the hill it got even darker, the winding road gave out. I watched Mac kill the engine, then the lights. We sat in almost perfect stillness; save for the dim flicker of street lamps from the city below, nothing moved.
Then, ‘This is where Billy Boy copped his whack, is it no’?’ said Mac. He was referring to an old case of mine. Tragic shooting.
I took up the baton: ‘Shot in the face.’ I rattled Davie: ‘Not a nice place to end your days… Dying out in the cold.’ I pressed the point: ‘… Last sight, a shooter going off.’
Davie played with his shirt-cuffs. I watched his row of chins tremble with the movement. I spotted a little bit of tissue paper sticking to the edge of his collar, held on with a spot of blood. A razor nick; he had fucking more to worry about now.
He spoke: ‘Look, I don’t know what you want with me… I don’t.’ His voice sounded strangled, the words lost in the tightness of his throat.
I grabbed his tie, pulled him closer to me. ‘You’re holding out on me, Davie — that was your second mistake. Your first was thinking I’d let you get away with it.’
Mac started to drum his fingers on the steering wheel: Davie took his gaze off me — I grabbed his jaw, jerked back his head. ‘I know you were running knock-offs for Ronnie McMilne,’ I said.
He held it together. ‘Your brother knew all about it… Michael was totally aware of-’
I slapped him on the brow with the heel of my hand. I didn’t need telling by this sack of shit. ‘Don’t even fucking presume to know more than me. I know about you, Davie, I know about the Czechs as well. The Undertaker must’ve took some hump when you cut him out of that racket!’ I yanked hard on the tie, smacked his brow into the dashboard.
Davie stayed down, dropped his head in his hands, lost it. He whined like a trapped animal. Mac edged round in his seat — the noise made Davie jump again.
‘Get this cunt oot before he shits himself.’ Mac pushed Davie towards me. I grabbed his tie again, jerked it tight as I backed out the door.
‘Better talk to me, Davie, I’m your best option. Did Michael kick off about the Czechs, was that it? Did he protest about your plans?’
The fat fucker fell on his knees, quite a clatter. I watched his face lose more colour as he started to stammer, ‘N-no. No… there was nothing like that. Nothing like that.’ He was sweating now, it came off his broad head in cobs. His face turned grey, the moisture adding a waxy sheen to him.
Mac slammed his door, walked round to join us. He stood over fat Davie for a moment then grabbed his hair. I gave him a slap with the back of my hand. Mac pulled him from the ground, forced him to face me.
Davie knew he was in Shit Street, his golf-club bonhomie was no good to him here; he reverted to the squealing little wimp he must have been in school. Mac and I were the playground bullies, taking his dinner money. He yelped a defence: ‘Ronnie was mad… furious. Michael went to see him, to try and talk some sense to the man.’
I barked at him, ‘When?’
‘The night he died.’
‘Are you saying McMilne killed my brother?’
‘I–I don’t know… I don’t know.’
My synapses jumped. ‘It sounds like it to me, Davie.’
‘I’m only telling you what I know… You asked me what I know and I’m telling you.’
None of it made sense. Davie was trying to save himself. ‘If McMilne killed Michael, then why’s he left you alive?’
Davie’s breath shortened. His face grew so pale I thought he might have a coronary. ‘I don’t know, I don’t have all the answers.’
I smelled bullshit. ‘Is it because you have protection, Davie… is that it? Who’s protecting you, the Czechs? Or is it the filth?’
He shook his head, panted, gasped for air. ‘No one’s protecting me.’
I was ready to see this fat fucker keel over. I grabbed his tie again and hauled his face to mine. I bawled at him, ‘Someone’s fucking looking out for you, only I wouldn’t count on them saving your arse. There’s a rat in your outfit cosying up to plod and given you’ve only got Czechs on the payroll it doesn’t look like you’ve many true friends.’
Mac stepped in, separated me from Davie. I was out of control, had said too much and I knew it. He hosed me down, put a hand on my chest and said, ‘Watch it.’
I took the hint, walked to the edge of the road and sparked up a tab.
Davie spoke: ‘Gus, Gus… I was Michael’s friend, can’t you see that? We were partners. I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt him… I wouldn’t.’
I drew deep on the cigarette. It stilled my heart rate, but not my rage. I said, ‘Tell me who killed Michael and I’ll make it all go away. You’ll get me off your back and you’ll get whoever killed him off your back at the same time, because I’ll do them, and you know it.’
I walked to the truck, opened the door. A fierce wind blew up from the sea, hit like a blast. I watched Davie turn in the road. He fell on his knees again. ‘I don’t know who killed Michael, I don’t…’ He was close to collapse. ‘I don’t. If I did, I’d tell you. I would… I would.’
‘You’re fucking lying to me.’ I was sure of it: he was protecting someone. That he’d told me McMilne saw my brother the night he died made me think the Undertaker had Davie’s nuts in a grinder — but it would be me turning the handle soon.
Mac walked around him, scowled, and returned to the truck.
I got in and closed the door. As Mac started the engine I lowered the window, said, ‘Think about what I said, Davie. Because only when I know who killed my brother will I leave you in peace.’
Chapter 19
There was less than a week till Christmas. I got my first card of the year — from my mother. I put it on the string above the mantel with the fifty or so that Debs had received. Time was when we got cards addressed to the both of us; not any more. It would take a while before it registered that we were a couple again. I wondered if we would last that long.
Debs wasn’t herself. There’d been tears, shouting. She knew I wasn’t about to let up on the case; she understood I couldn’t. It came as a heartscald to her, because it was a red-flag warning that the Gus of old was still with us. Much as I wanted to change, much as I’d made promises and real progress, my old self was still there. Like Yul Brynner’s faulty android in Westworld, you couldn’t kill him with an axe. Just kept coming back at you. Again and again.
I’d pledged to keep up the sessions with the shrink, but I doubted their worth. I wasn’t sure all this psychobabble wasn’t just dredging up more hurt, exposing me to memories and emotions I’d buried for years. My past had been something I’d kept locked away, sealed in a jar. When it did present itself it took another kind of jar to wash it away. I wasn’t sure all this introspection wouldn’t have me reaching for the sauce soon. I felt the pull of
