yes… Do you reckon he’ll be all right?’
She had dark eyes; they stared up at me as she spoke. ‘You should go and get a seat.’
‘But, but I–I…’ I gripped on to her hand.
She pulled it away from me. ‘He’s in the best place now.’
It sounded like the kind of thing she’d said to a million people before. I wanted more than that, but I moved back, said, ‘Thank you.’
When I sat down in one of the practice’s plastic chairs, I sensed everyone turning towards me. I tried not to make any eye contact; knew full well that would only be an invitation to have them talk to me, and I was in no mood for chat.
I stared at my boots, let my heart rate reach a normal level again. I felt my breath returning but the blood still pumped hard in me.
I knew who had done this to Usual.
I could see the face on that parka-wearing pug as he fed the meat through the open window. I had both fists gripped. I’d fucking well feed him through a window when I got my hands on him. I didn’t care if he was one of the Undertaker’s boys, I’d do him. And I’d do him proper.
I got out of my seat, paced the floor.
Everywhere, pictures of dogs beamed from the walls: adverts for wormers, breed charts, an anatomy poster. I couldn’t look. Turned for the door, called to the woman on the desk, ‘I’m going for a smoke.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll give you a shout if I hear anything.’
I thanked her again.
Outside I sparked up. I was running low on Marlboros; I’d been smoking the ones Ronnie McMilne had left for me with Hod. The bullet rattled about in the pack. I took it out, looked at it. It was the size of the one on the Full Metal Jacket poster. When I got my hands on that pug, I’d lodge it in his fucking head, with or without a gun.
I could imagine the bastard laughing, telling his mates that he’d offed my dog because it bit him. I chugged deep on my tab. I knew chances were he’d poisoned Usual on the Undertaker’s instructions. It didn’t matter. I was going after the fucker whether he was working on initiative or not. He might be looked after by every face in Edinburgh — it wouldn’t stop me.
I reached the tab’s filter, lit another from the tip.
The sunshine had left the sky, great grey clouds came racing in again. I wondered if Usual would pull through. What was going on inside? There had to be a hope, there was, surely. The vet wouldn’t have taken him through to the surgery if he didn’t think there was a chance. I found myself staring at the sky. I knew God was dead, but it didn’t matter.
‘Please, God, don’t take that dog. Don’t take him…’
I’d got down to the filter again when I heard the hinges screech on the door behind me. It was the vet. My jaw tensed.
He pushed his glasses up on his freckled head. ‘Hello there.’
I nodded. ‘Hello.’
I watched him take a deep breath, put his hands in his pockets. I waited for words but none seemed to come, then he exhaled slowly, spoke: ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
I hadn’t expected this as a gambit; I’d expected to hear how the dog was. I raised my hand; ash fell from my cigarette. I played dumb. ‘I–I returned to my car and… someone had fed the steak through the window and…’
The vet took his hands from his pockets, folded his arms. ‘Had you any trouble with the dog? Had he attacked someone… or, I don’t know, been involved in an altercation?’
‘No. No. Nothing at all like that.’
The vet shook his head. ‘It’s very worrying this type of thing. Seeing it more and more.’
‘He was poisoned, then?’
‘Oh yes, ethylene glycol… That’s antifreeze to you and me.’
I stubbed out my tab. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
The vet played it businesslike. ‘I’ve done all I can, coated the bowel to prevent any further absorption… but he’s not out the woods yet, his kidneys could still fail.’ He turned back to the door. ‘You’ll have to leave him to rest up for a few hours yet. We’ll give you a call if there’s any change.’
He told me to give the receptionist my details. I went back inside. She said, ‘It’s the breed: people think they’re dangerous because the papers go wild when a wee kiddie’s attacked… They just want rid, think they’re all the same.’
I didn’t respond. I was torn between relief that the dog had survived and feeling the need to do some damage.
I jotted down my address and telephone number. ‘You’ll call if there’s any change?’
She smiled. ‘Of course.’
I thanked her and left.
When I got back to the car two young lads were sat in the front seats. One was turning the wheel like it was the Whacky Races. I picked up my pace when I saw them; they clocked me and made a dash for it. I was already in a run as they scampered up a close, got a kick out to one’s arse as I chased them. ‘You little prick!’
He yelped, shot hands on his backside, but kept running.
‘If I see you again, I’ll wipe your face across a wall!’ I shouted.
They had the jump on me and reached the end of the close before I could nab them.
‘You auld cunt!’ the lad yelled from the end of the close. The pair of them stood giving me the fingers.
I lunged again, made to run after them and they pegged it.
‘Little cockheads,’ I muttered as I schlepped back to the motor.
The Punto had lost the wing mirror. I didn’t remember it falling off after the collision. I looked about to see if it was in the street. There it was. The little bastards must have yanked it off. I picked it up and placed it on the front seat. As I sat and stared at the broken and scratched plastic, I thought it was a poor substitute for Usual. I firmed my grip on the wheel, locked down my emotions.
‘Right, McMilne… Let’s see what your boy’s made of.’
I punched the accelerator. The car shot ahead in first. I was in second before the end of the street, taking the corner like a lunatic. If this fucker wanted a piece of me, he could have it.
Chapter 26
The undertaker had a lap-dancing bar in the part of town known as the Pubic Triangle. I parked at the foot of Castle Terrace, walked round to Lothian Road. I felt my adrenaline spike with every step. I was balling fists and had the familiar metallic taste in my mouth. If a warning flag waved, I missed it. I was off the dial, ready to take down all comers.
There’d been some protests to the pubs round this way: sleazy doesn’t work for the Morningside twinsets up the road. I was about to take a protest of my own to the principal purveyor, but I wouldn’t be waving a placard. I had an image of my boot stamping that pug’s face through the back of his head. Way I felt, I mightn’t stop there.
As I reached McMilne’s club, saw the neon cowgirl twirling her hooters and firing off her six-shooters, I had a pang of regret: I should have got chibbed up for this. Thought, Fuck it, too late now. I felt armed with enough aggression to demolish the joint anyway.
There shouldn’t have been anyone on the door at this time of day. But there was. As I got closer I recognised him — the man they called Dartboard. He had badly acne-scarred skin, accentuated by the greased-back hair that sat in wiry curls over his neck. He had once been known as a useful welterweight, but had piled on the beef a few years back. The next stop was a trip to Matalan for a cheapo black leather, then a brain-dead bouncer’s gig.
I stopped at the door. Dartboard didn’t recognise me at first but when he did his eyebrows made sharp angles above his head. ‘Dury, bugger me.’
We went way back: my old man was connected to all the local sporting worthies. ‘You giving away yer poop- chute now?’
