the chair, started to skin up. I noticed his knuckles were scraped as he brought out his Rizlas.
‘You’ve been in a stramash, Stevo.’ I pointed to his hands. ‘Think you should give me the low-down on this crew that’s putting the shits up you.’
Stevo crumbled in some Moroccan rock. His top lip glistened with sweat as he spoke. ‘They’re part of an… order.’
‘A
His voice dipped, began to quiver. ‘Ben was part of it too… It goes back years, decades and decades.’
I was having some trouble getting my head around this. ‘Like some kind of secret club?’
‘Have you heard of Skull and Bones?’
‘The fucking pirate flag?’
Stevo managed a staccato laugh. He wiped his lip. ‘It’s an old fraternity in America… George W. and so on were members. It’s like an on-campus old-boys’ network. They have their rituals and… their secrets.’
It sounded far-fetched; I’d never encountered anything like it. Then it struck: of course I hadn’t – I was never likely to, coming from my side of the tracks. ‘And it goes on here too… in Scotland?’
‘It started here.’ Stevo fiddled nervously with a flap of skin under his chin, his voice trembled some more. ‘They call themselves the Seriatim.’
‘It means one after the other… What’s that about?’
A shrug of heavy shoulders. ‘I think they like to think of themselves as links in a chain.’
‘How do you know about this, Stevo?’
‘I don’t really… but, well, I see things… hear things.’
‘What do you mean, you see things?’
He sparked up the joint, inhaled deep. It seemed to calm him slightly. ‘In this job… you see things, see the meetings at night and…’
I didn’t know if I wanted to hear what he was saying. If Stevo had the kind of information I thought he had, then he was in some danger. Two people had died already, three if you included the kid in the seventies. I didn’t like what I was hearing. I didn’t want to see any more names added to the death list.
‘Are you telling me you know something about these hangings?’
He picked a piece of stray tobacco from the end of the roach. He looked reluctant to speak. I prompted him again: ‘Stevo… do you know something?’
He pressed the roach to his mouth, inhaled. He took some time to speak again, gasped, ‘The Seriatim – Ben was a member and so was Joe Calder. I’d hazard a guess that the one who died years ago was too.’
‘It goes that far back?’
‘Shit, yeah… years and years, hundreds even, I don’t know how many. They pick out half a dozen overprivileged idiots on each intake and, y’know, look after them…’
I pressed, ‘No, I don’t know… what do you mean, “look after them”?’
Stevo’s fingers tapped at the joint. ‘They induct them, I suppose. I’ve seen some old boys who must have been past members from time to time. It’s all a fucking game to them, think they’re it. It’s about connections and looking out for each other… that kind of bullshit.’
That might explain the Craft’s involvement; it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine some of the Seriatim’s past members joining the force. If they knew about the first death or had some involvement with it – it made sense they’d want any more killings hushed up. It stank. I pressed: ‘And Paul… is he part of the group?’
Stevo nodded slowly, his eyes sunk in his head. ‘I think he’s got some wee fiefdom. Seen him chatting to the top dogs, taking directions and that…’ He seized up, said, ‘I shouldn’t be talking like this. If they knew, I’d be…’
‘You’d be what, Stevo… killed?’
He held schtum.
‘If you know anything about who killed Ben… or anyone else, you need to tell me. People have died – do you want there to be more?’
He shot out of the chair, growing frantic. There was terror in his eyes as he tugged at his hair. I’d put too much pressure on him. ‘Leave me alone, Gus,’ he snapped.
I saw I’d gone as far as I could for now, but I had to give him a warning. ‘Stevo, if you won’t talk to me, you should go to the police. I know a man.’ I took out one of the cards Hod had printed up for me, wrote down Fitz’s name and number. ‘Seriously… talk to Fitz… if you won’t talk to me. He’ll help you… help you sort it all out, Stevo. Trust me on that.’
He took the card, tucked it into the pocket of his dustcoat. I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d use it.
Chapter 27
I CALLED HOD, MADE SURE he was keeping a close check on Amy.
‘She’s watching
‘Good. See she stays that way.’
‘Nae danger.’
I had a few hours to kill before I met up with Fitz. I had it all straight in my head what I needed to say to him – and what I needed to hear from him. But there was something else worrying me that needed to be attended to. Call it my age, call it the advanced state of entropy I found myself in, but I’d been thinking a lot about my mortality. For some that means finding peace with God, for others it means tidying up their financial affairs. For me it meant getting to the bottom of the chaos of my childhood.
I knew my mother had put up with so much from my father; what I didn’t know was why. Beyond that, what I needed to know was – where did it all come from? All the hate, all the bile. From one man towards his family. None of it had made any sense in my boyhood and it made no more sense now. I needed to know what it was all about: how did it happen? Why did we all have to bear so many scars?
As I walked towards my childhood home I felt old memories assail me; I saw my brother Michael playing in the garden. He could only have been five or six; in a few more years he would try to kill himself after suffering a violent beating from my father. Some people will tell you they find it hard to look back, hard to remember their childhood after a certain age. Not me. I found it hard
Debs had said I should let them go, that I was keeping the pain alive in me – it wrecked our marriage for her to see me so miserable, ruined. I pulled out my mobile phone. I had no missed calls, no texts. I wanted to dial Debs’s number, to tell her I was about to face my demons, but it seemed pointless now. She didn’t want anything to do with me. I was coming to realise what that meant. I would no longer have Debs in my life. She was gone. Just like my father was gone. I needed to let them both go.
As I opened the gate to my old family home, my heart stilled. I spotted my mother behind the net curtains. She moved slowly; she was older now, but she was unmistakably the same woman who had battled to raise us for all those years. She caught sight of me and hurried to the door. She had opened up before I had the chance to knock.
‘Oh, Gus, oh my…’ She raised her hand to her mouth.
‘Hi, Mam.’
‘Oh, come away in, son… You look like death warmed up.’
Did I tell her I felt that way too?… Let it slide. My mam needed no more hurts in her life.
Inside the place was tidy and spare; neat as ninepins, as the saying goes. My father’s picture was still on the sideboard, Cannis Dury, in his World Cup shirt of 1982. It had been his final taste of glory; after that, his only audience had been under this roof. Every one of us would walk on fire to have missed that show.
My mother sat on the arm of the chair. Her hair had grown white. ‘Gus, it’s been so long.’ She reached out, placed a hand on my shoulder. I started to cough. I could hear my lungs rattling.
I said, ‘It has that… Sorry, I’ve been a bit, y’know…’
She pressed out a thin smile, rubbed my arm, ‘I was sorry to hear about you and Deborah…’
I was shocked that she knew. I don’t know why, it had been long enough now – surely my own mother had the