Knew I was ramping up, raring to go mental. I’d reached the point where I just didn’t want to think any more about how things might play out; I didn’t care, it was an irrelevance now. The loss I felt was all-consuming. I was ready to start with the scatter gun; if I took down some innocents along the way, so be it.
I picked up my mobi. One side of it was covered in slap. I looked at the window ledge where I’d sat it and saw a thin layer of Debs’s face powder; there was an oblong imprint where the mirror usually lay. It looked like dust had settled, as though more time had passed than was possible; the image tripped me out. I dipped my fingertip in the powder and watched the sheen transfer itself. It felt like touching a ghost.
I turned away. Rubbed my fingertip on the couch as I sat down, then buffed my phone in the same way. The powder showed up on the couch like a shiny film of grease. I rubbed at it with my hand but it wouldn’t go away. I put a cushion over it.
I went into my contacts. I had two calls to make; the first to Alice went straight to voicemail. Thought, Fucking hell. I hate talking to machines, said: ‘Hi, kiddo, it’s Gus… Can you give me a call? Just wanted to check how you were doing. Is everything okay? Jeez, I don’t suppose you’d say, would you… Look, just go easy on the Scrumpy Jack, eh… I know what I’m talking about, here… Right, so give me a call, huh? Be good, Alice, I’ll see you soon.’
I winced at the pathetic tone of my message; I was trying too hard and I knew she’d sense that right off. I dropped the phone, got up, cursed myself and sat back down. I vowed to do a better job with the next one.
Ringing.
‘Hello, David Prentice speaking.’ I was surprised fat Davie had answered his own line, but then again, wondered why I should be — way things were headed in that place.
‘I’ve got a message to give to you, Davie.’
‘Who is this?’
I laughed down the phone. ‘Don’t play the wide cunt with me.’
‘Gus?’
‘Got it in one. Now let’s see if you can keep up that perfect score. I have a message for you from guess who.’
‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ He actually managed to press a note of indignation into his tone.
‘Fucking smart up, Davie… Do you really think I’m messing about? If you do, then maybe I’ve got to come and take you for another birl up the Craigs.’
His breathing faltered. ‘No. No. I’m sorry, I understand, I–I mean, who? Erm, Ronnie? Is your message from Ronnie McMilne?’
‘He shoots, he scores. That’s two out of two, bonnie lad.’ I lit a tab, let him hear the burn of it down the line. ‘Let’s try for a hat-trick, eh?’
Silence. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
‘Yes…’ said Davie.
‘Good, good. Now, your friend and mine, the happy, smiley Undertaker, has got it into his head to be fucked off about something… What do you think that might be, Davie?’
He paused; I could hear him scratch the stubble on his chin. ‘I know what that might be.’
‘Oh, you do?… Great, because if you get the hat-trick, Davie, you win a prize. Know what it is? It’s, well, it’s not much of a prize, it’s your sorry arse. You get to keep your sorry arse above the ground.’ I let the words settle, took another blast on my Marlboro. ‘Tell me then, Davie, what the Undertaker told me to remind you?’
He stammered, spat words: ‘The trucking…’
I jumped up, yelled, ‘Un-fucking-believable!.. Davie Prentice, you are a winner!’ I threw myself back on the couch. ‘Yes, Davie, the Undertaker wants you to keep on trucking. He wants you to tell your Czech friends to get tae fuck and he wants you to know that every week that goes by that he’s short of some Polish vodka to punt in his pubs, that’s another fifty Gs you owe him. How does that grab you? And don’t say by the balls.’
No answer.
I heard movement on the other end of the line. ‘It’s not for me to-’
‘Oh, no, you’re not going to blank our friend Ronnie, in favour of your new friends, are you?’
‘I–I…’
‘Come on now, Davie. Are you telling me you’ve got a better offer?’
‘Gus, it’s not as simple as that. You don’t understand what kind of people we’re dealing with. I–I… I mean, we’re not dealing with rational people here.’
I adopted a sarky voice. ‘Are you saying they’re the kind of people that might do you some damage if you crossed them?’
Fat Davie’s words trembled over the phone: ‘I think that’s understood.’
I sat up straight. Hammered nails into my pitch. ‘What’s understood, y’cunt, is that you’re about to be thrown to the wolves, Davie… Just like you did to my brother.’
I hung up.
Chapter 31
Hod pushed the hilux hard. I nearly ate my chips backwards as he tore through the gears. He amber-gambled on the lights and clipped a traffic cone at Waterloo Place. A ned in a Burberry cap, wankered on Buckie, held up the bottle in approval as we passed. I turned to Mac and laughed. There was no point slamming Hod’s driving — it was an expression of his masculinity that went way beyond criticism as far as he was concerned.
‘Look at that wee fannybaws in the hat,’ said Hod.
‘You look at the fucking road,’ Mac told him, ‘you’re gonna tip this motor.’
‘Bullshit. I’m rock… look at me!’ Hod took his hands off the steering wheel and held them in front of him. ‘Steady as the day is long.’
Mac lunged for the wheel. ‘Get them back, y’arsehole.’
I had to laugh. It was like Bill Murray in Stripes, taking the pictures of the old cow in the fur. ‘Mac, he’s pulling yer chain,’ I said. ‘Don’t play up to it.’
Mac leaned forward, took the bolt-cutters from the floor. ‘I’ll pull his fucking teeth!’ He was only half joking — I could see him having a go at it.
Hod fell into a throaty laugh. ‘You crack me up, Mac boy… This is gonna be fun, eh!’
Mac snapped the cutters at him, got so close he threatened to catch the tip of Hod’s tache. I thought they seemed a wee bit too hyped for what we had planned, but I let it slide; I was pumped for the job myself. The Czechs weren’t an outfit to mess with — I’d seen what they’d done to Andy Gregory and Ian Kerr — but if the filth weren’t digging them out, then somebody had to.
We got through Leith Street before the buses left the stops but got snagged on the roundabout at Picardy Place. Hod tried to change lanes. ‘Fucking tram works. Who wants shoogly cars anyway?… We’ll never get down the Walk.’ He pushed his way in front of a bloke in a white van, took pelters and a blast on the horn. I eyeballed the driver and he looked away. Thought: Wise back-down, fella. Testosterone shot about in the cab like electricity looking for an earth. First wido to cross us was likely to be fitted for a plaster-of-Paris jumpsuit.
On Broughton Street Hod cut a right and revved too high, sent the wheels spinning on the icy road. Mac had let up complaining, turned on the radio. Some talking head banged on about more casualties in the economy. So many retail chains were folding we’d soon have nothing but boarded-up shopfronts.
Hod sighed, ‘I didn’t see Woolies going under, that was a shocker.’
‘What about the old MFI?’ said Mac. ‘That’s gonna hit the doer-uppers.’
Hod scrunched his brows. ‘What you on about, doer-uppers? There’s no fucking housing market left. It’s ground to a halt.’
Mac barked, ‘That’s maybe why they went bust then, eh.’
The pair still sparred as I leaned over and turned up the volume to drown them out. Another gobshite had come on the airwaves, said, ‘It is time to end the workshy’s reliance on the state.’ I thought he was on about our government ministers until I sussed that he was one himself.
‘Och, fucksake… they’re slicing into the jammy roll now,’ I said.
