The end of the road looked like a Hieronymus Bosch painting, bodies seething everywhere. Queues from the pubs spilled onto the road. Mac blasted the horn and swerved. The Hilux mounted the kerb as we drove onto West Port; we hit fifty before Tollcross. The truck skidded to a halt outside a busy pub, folk queuing to get in already.
I leaned over and opened Davie’s door, said, ‘Out!’
He was silent now, accepting.
Mac hobbled behind me on his one good ankle, jangling the car keys. ‘Right, let’s fucking nash.’
The snowfall was heavier than I’d seen it all year, and it was the harshest winter I could remember. I thought again of Alice, out in that field, tied to a rusting tractor axle. She was so thin, so frail. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t perish. I tried to focus, to get moving. I knew I was her only hope — but I just couldn’t shake the sight of her, the image that the Undertaker had shown me on that phone haunted me.
I pushed Davie in the back. ‘I’m telling you now, Davie, anything’s happened to my niece… you’re fucking well done for.’
He slipped in the street, fell. The knees of his beige Farah trousers turned black. I put a grip on his belt and hauled him to his feet. His soft shoes slid about all over the pavement as he walked, glancing back at us.
‘Just fucking get going,’ said Mac.
At the Undertaker’s lap-dancing bar in the Pubic Triangle a flannel-shirted Scouser was arguing the toss after being refused entry. I didn’t recognise the doorman, but I recognised the type. I fronted up, said, ‘We’re expected.’
‘By who?’ He put in some attitude.
We didn’t have time for games and Mac knew it. His chest went out. ‘Ronnie fucking McMilne… Don’t play wide, y’arsehole, or I’ll hand you yer eyes.’
The lump did a mental calculation, nodded us inside. We got pointed up the stairs and told to turn left at the mirrored door. ‘Ronnie’s in the office, down the end of the hall.’
I pushed Davie up the stairs. He was dripping wet now as the snow melted on him. He stumbled and dropped into a crawl for a few steps. I put a hand under his arm and yanked him up. He gasped for air as we reached the landing.
‘Down here,’ said Mac. He led the way to the end of the corridor, pushed open the Undertaker’s door. He was the first to be greeted as we walked in.
‘It’s yer bold self,’ said McMilne, ‘Mac the Knife, indeed.’ He sat on a leather chair, his feet up on the desk as Only Fools spat canned laughter from a wee portable. Dartboard and Sammy picked over the remains of a pizza box that Sammy held in his hands like a chav laptop. They laughed at the telly as Del Boy and Rodney appeared in Batman and Robin costumes.
‘Ron,’ said Mac.
‘Haven’t seen you for a while, you still…?’ He made a slicing motion in front of him, as though he was carving someone with a Stanley blade.
Mac shook his head, turned to me.
‘Can we get down to fucking business?’ I said. ‘I thought it was this cunt you wanted to see.’ I dragged fat Davie to the middle of the room.
The Undertaker sat up in his chair; he put those falsers of his on display. ‘Ah, you found him.’ He seemed unimpressed, turned back to the telly. Dartboard and Sammy picked anchovies off the pizza, dropped them in the box. They got in the way of the telly and the Undertaker kicked off. ‘Get oot the fucking road!’
I looked away. A black-and-white monitor showed pictures from the floor of girls with their baps out, dancing round poles. I tried again. ‘Yeah, so… I’ve done my bit,’ I said.
The Undertaker looked irritated, turned and sized me up. ‘So fucking what?’
A bolt of adrenaline hit me, the flash of heat going to my head. I stormed over to the desk and slapped down my palms. As I moved I felt Mac pull me back but I shrugged him off, roared, ‘I want my fucking niece and I want my brother’s fucking killer!’
The Undertaker lifted a thin leg, then another, lowered his feet to the floor. He sat forward in the leather chair and made a steeple of his long fingers. ‘And just what’re you gonna do if I say no, laddie?’
Dartboard and Sammy threw down their pizza slices. I stepped away from the desk and looked at Mac. He squared his shoulders. Fat Davie trembled so much beside me that I could hear the change rattling in his pockets. The television blared on; Only Fools had finished — they started singing about Hookey Street being magnifique.
The Undertaker stood up. He was the tallest in the room by a head, but his frame was stooped as his neck jutted forward. He looked like a lamp post that had been struck by a car. ‘I’ve missed the end now,’ he said. ‘I fucking like that show as well.’
I tried to think of something to say but my heart was pumping too hard, the adrenaline spiking through me, making me jumpy.
Dartboard wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and Sammy picked a paper napkin from the pizza box. I tried to watch every movement, but my eyes followed the Undertaker as he went into a drawer at the side of the desk. I felt sure a shooter was coming out. I saw Davie collapse at my side. Mac grabbed him, held him up. As the drawer closed the Undertaker slowly raised his hand from below the line of the desk, and then he stopped. ‘You know the trouble with folk like you, Dury?’
It was a prompt. I shook my head. ‘What’s that?’ I kept watching him closely.
‘Nae sense of humour.’ He lifted up his hand. ‘I’m only having ye on, laddie, y’need to lighten up a wee bit.’ He threw an Ordnance Survey map at me. Dartboard and Sammy started to laugh.
I picked up the map: it was folded over at a section of Midlothian. ‘This where they are?’ Biro markings indicated a line from the bypass at Straiton to a circle around a smallholding.
Mac peered over my shoulder then took the map from my hand. ‘Come on, I know where this is.’ He let go of Davie and the fat prick fell on the floor. Dartboard and Sammy laughed once again; the Undertaker joined them.
On the stairs I grabbed Mac. ‘Gimme the keys.’
‘Wha’?’
‘Gimme the fucking keys.’ I tore the map from his hand. ‘You’re not coming.’
Mac looked me in the eye; he knew what I had planned. ‘No way, man. You’re hypo, you’ll get in some right fucking lumber if-’
I pushed my forearm against his neck, forced him up against the wall, hollered, ‘Gimme the fucking keys, Mac, I’m not messing about.’ He froze. I pressed my arm deeper. ‘I mean it, Mac… gimme them.’ I felt his arm move at his side. His hand went into his pocket and brought out the keys.
I let him go. Ran down the stairs.
As I went, Mac shouted, ‘Gus, don’t fucking do it… They’ll put you away, man.’
I didn’t listen.
In the street I tanked it; my Docs slipped all over the pavement. At the truck my hands shook so much I struggled to get the key in the door. When I got it started I put the steering to full-lock and spun the tyres. It was a tight spot and I clipped the tail of a jeep; its alarm sounded. Pissheads pointed as I reversed and smacked the car behind but I didn’t care. I got out of there and pelted it.
I couldn’t find the wipers, kept hitting the indicators as the snow fell harder. Christmas lights shone from the shopfronts and jakeys rolled into the road but I got out of the city and made for the bypass.
It was a white-out on the main road. Got trapped behind a gritter. The snow came heavier, stacked itself on the road. It was a blizzard now. I drove faster and then slowed in a panic at the thought of coming off the road, but edged the needle up higher and higher until I had to brake.
The back end slipped away. I thought it would fishtail but the truck righted itself. I felt the wheels lurch and then I headed for a ditch at the edge of the road. I pumped the brake again as the truck skidded and saw the front end dip suddenly — I thought I was in the ditch — but the truck had stopped on the last inches of tarmac. I put it into reverse and rejoined the road.
I raced on for a mile, driving into the blizzard.
There was very little traffic and I was thankful for that. A couple of night buses had pulled into lay-bys; I saw people inside shivering, waiting for a break in the blizzard, or perhaps the snowplough. I found it hard to follow the
