Mac’s attention shifted: ‘The dole’s being cut?’
We listened to the political pigmy who had been fronted to deliver the news that, as the multi-billion packages to bail out banks had to be paid for somehow, there were going to be cutbacks in the dole.
‘That’s bad news,’ I said.
Mac riled up: ‘Says he wants a million folk off benefits whilst the country’s losing jobs left and right.’
‘This is going to end in anarchy… Watch this space: we’ll be stringing them from lamp posts.’
Hod joined in: ‘Put me down for some of that. I’ll even bring my own fucking rope.’
The temperature in the Hilux rose. I wound down the window a couple of inches but the air outside was too cold, had to close it again. I read the thermostat in the dash — it was four-below. As we drove past the banana flats, down to the waterfront, I saw frosted windscreens on every car parked along the side of the road. Some of the roofs had an inch or two of hardened snow on them. In the gutter, the night before’s beer tins lay trapped in the frozen puddles.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ I asked Hod.
‘Aye, I did a wee dry run last night.’
‘Any sign of life at the place?’
‘I didn’t stop, just drove by… Nice big hoose.’
Hod’s detour to miss the tram works on the Walk meant we had to snake back through the side streets, but the entire port was in disarray: building materials dumped in the roads, cables stacked up against dumper trucks, machinery waiting to be carted to the site of the main track work.
As we reached the Links, I checked the road for a black Pajero. Plenty of cars were parked up along the kerb, but I didn’t see a Pajero. Hod spied a space, pulled up. We sat opposite an old No Ball Games sign; a newer foreign-language one had gone up beside it.
‘The fuck’s that?’ said Hod.
‘Polish,’ I told him. I’d read in the paper that the city’s Polish community had been congregating on the Links in big numbers — there’d been some revelry. ‘Apparently, the toon cooncil has had complaints about some big-time Polish piss-ups… It’ll be a warning notice.’
‘Pish-ups on the Links, eh,’ said Mac, he started to snigger. ‘Whatever next.’
‘I know, it’s not like the place isn’t hoachin’ with brassers and our own home-grown jakeys.’ The double standards folk applied to migrants appalled me; the way our own country was going, we’d all be migrants ourselves soon enough.
Hod picked out the house for us. It was a large Georgian number, would have cost some poppy back in the boom but my guess was, current climate, no one would be able to shift it. The building sat over three storeys, with a basement level and, I’d guess, substantial extensions to the rear.
‘Looks empty,’ said Mac.
‘Uh-uh, check it.’ Hod pointed to the window in the second floor. A light was burning; a bloke in a white hoodie paced the floor.
I tried to get a deck at the fella. He was dark-haired and heavy, that was about all I could see. He passed the window another couple of times then disappeared. The light went out after him.
‘Think that’s our man?’ said Mac.
‘Our… Radek?’ said Hod. ‘Couldn’t tell.’
‘Well, let’s give the cunt a pull anyway,’ said Mac. He leaned forward in his seat, twisted. ‘Come on, Gus… get the door open.’
I put a hand on his chest, shoved him back down. ‘Just give it time.’
‘What do you mean, give it time?’ Mac scented blood: he was gantin’ to burst some heads, any he could get his hands to.
‘I want to see what the lie of the land is,’ I said. ‘Trust me, I have a game plan here.’
Mac sat back in his seat, mouthed off, ‘I thought we came here to go in, no’ just sit outside.’ He picked up the bolt-cutters, started to snap them.
I spoke over him: ‘Hod, tell me about this guy again.’
‘Radek’s a nut-job… seriously off his cake. I spoke to a few more boys off the sites — no one’s got a different opinion. Although there’s quite a bit of guesswork going on around town as to why he’s over here.’
‘Oh, aye…’
‘Rumour has it he’s a wanted man back home. You get that shite a lot on the sites when someone appears from elsewhere, but mostly it’s talk, someone biggin’ himself up. Nobody doubts it’s true in Radek’s case.’
Like this mattered now. But I was interested. ‘What do they say he’s wanted for?’
‘That’s the thing, nobody knows.’ Hod shrugged. ‘If it was just bullshit, folk would know all about it.’
Mac tapped on the dash. ‘Aye, aye.’ The door of the house eased open, our man in the white hoodie appeared. He spoke into a mobile phone as he locked the door. When he jumped down the steps we all saw that he fitted the description of Radek perfectly.
‘Right, let’s nash,’ said Hod. He opened his door.
‘Wait,’ I yelled. A black Pajero pulled up in front of the house. The bloke tugged the hoodie over his head as he jumped in the front. The driver gave a quick glance into the road and spun wheels.
‘Fucking hell, he’s on the move,’ said Mac.
Hod slammed his door, put the key back in the ignition, said, ‘We going after him, then?’
Chapter 32
‘Sit tight.’
‘Gus, Jesus, the fucker’s getting away,’ said Mac.
We watched the Pajero speed up. The driver did a left-to-right at the end of the street, then burned it. We got close enough to see into Radek’s eyes as he passed us.
‘That’s our man,’ said Hod.
‘That was our man,’ said Mac.
I pulled the door handle, stepped out onto the street. The pair of them looked at me like I’d suggested colonic irrigation all round. ‘Come on, then.’ I held the door, waved them out, ‘Are you coming or not? And you better get those bolt-cutters.’
My foot struck a Lech lager can as I walked to the house — they’d replaced the Omega cider ones round here. I kicked out, put the can in the air. Mac and Hod followed from the truck. I had a hand jemmy in the pocket of my Crombie, but I wondered if I might have been better getting hold of something with a little more firepower. I’d passed the point where I gave a shit for myself, but I worried about the pair behind me. If we ran into any grief, I knew they could handle themselves better than most, but I replayed those pictures of Andy’s face. The sight of his tongue, cut out and attached to his chest with a knife, wasn’t an image I was going to forget any time soon.
‘What you thinking here, Gus?’ said Hod.
‘He locked the door behind him, so I’m guessing the joint’s empty.’
Hod jogged up to my side. ‘That’s no’ much fucking use to us.’
He was well wrong. I said, ‘You don’t know what might be in there, Hod… Might be the belly of the whale.’
He looked at me like I’d gone scripto, turned to Mac and raised a finger in a swirling motion at his ear. Mac firmed his jaw and focused on the front door of the house.
As we left the road and started up the driveway my guts tightened. I gripped the jemmy in my pocket and took a sketch down the street. The place was quiet; it was too cold to be venturing out of doors unless totally necessary.
The house looked like a doss, the paint peeling from the door and every window frame. There was only one set of curtains hanging: the rest of the windows were covered by taped-down newspaper and pinned-up, faded pieces of cloth. It was an end terrace. The house next door had been recently whitewashed, but this joint was painted grey and hadn’t been touched up for a few years. A pallet of cement sat in the front garden, a tarpaulin stretched over it, and what looked like a rusty alternator had been left by the doorstep.
