be approaching the rear of a large baronial-style home. The car came to a halt slowly, the wheels hardly making any noise as they stilled. The pug squinted out to the back door; the lights were too bright and he made a visor of his hand above his eyes. He seemed to see what he wanted to see, smiled and made a thumbs-up. I caught sight of a bloke, a lit cigarette in his mouth, making his way down from the back steps. He was another big biffer in a white trackie.
The pug turned on me. ‘Showtime!’
I had to laugh. ‘Is that supposed to put the shits up me?’
His face dropped. ‘I’ll put the fucking shits up you, Dury.’
I managed another snort, felt less brave when I saw the corners of his mouth turning up; he looked the type who enjoys this sort of thing. It’s why they got into the racket in the first place – to bust heads.
The car’s back door was pulled open. I felt a cool gust of damp air and then a large hand with a heavy piece of bling on the wrist reached in and grabbed me by the collar.
In the far corner of the well-lit yard sat a one-storey building. It looked out of place, like a bunker; it seemed to have blacked-out windows. It didn’t inspire confidence in me; could guess what it was used for. As we walked towards it the pug put a boot in my arse. I turned, blared, ‘You can chuck that in! I’m fucking walking, amn’t I?’
The pair of diddies looked at each other and laughed. Was expecting a high five, but they were beneath even that level.
When we reached the door, the trackie pug knocked a couple of times and then the door sprung open. Another shaven-headed lump opened up, nodded us down a tiled corridor. I knew why it was tiled: easier to hose down the blood. At the end of the corridor a door was ajar; I heard voices coming from inside. I was sure I recognised one of them. When I was pushed through the doorway, my worst fears were confirmed.
‘Gus Dury, as I live and breathe!’ said Shaky. He stood in the corner with a group of biffers. They were drinking cans of Red Stripe. ‘Get you a wee tipple, Gus?’
I shook my head. That was a first. But I’d had enough for one night.
‘Och, wise… always gets you into bother the drink, does it no’?’ he said.
I walked into the middle of the room. It looked to have been a slaughterhouse at one stage. There was a rail of butcher hooks hanging from a metal bar that crossed two steel beams in the ceiling. On the ceramic floor was a gutter and grooves to let the blood drain away. If he had chosen this place for effect, it fucking well worked. I felt my throat freeze over; my heart all but stilled in my chest. All I could think of now was Amy, and how she’d feel when she heard how I went.
‘Mind you, Gus… way things are looking for you, you might fancy a wee bevy. Sure I cannae tempt you?’
I shook my head again. Tried to speak, but couldn’t manage words. Somehow I’d lost the power of speech. All language was locked away inside me, I had no access to it. As I stood there looking at the crowd of laughing idiots, all I hoped for was a quick death. I was certainly too weak to put up a fight.
‘What’s that, Gus?… Sorry, cannae hear you,’ said Shaky.
The pug in the leather jacket leaned forward and slapped me across the side of the head. ‘He’s fucking speaking to you.’
The crowd got a laugh out of that.
‘Where did you find him?’ asked Shaky.
‘Stoatin’ about the East End… oot his fucking face, so he was.’
Shaky crossed the few feet between us to look me in the eye. ‘What’s the matter, Gus boy… wee barney wi’ the missus?’
I found words, ‘I’m not married… any more.’
Shaky pulled a face. ‘Oh, it speaks!’ He walked round behind me. ‘That’s right, remember hearing something about that… when I put my feelers out. Did you know I was taking an interest in you, Dury? Oh, aye… big interest, let me tell you.’
I twisted my neck, followed his pacing. ‘Is that right?’
He snapped: ‘I’m no’ a liar!… In fact, anything I tell you, you can be guaranteed of it, bet the fucking farm on my word, so ye can. Now, do you remember what I told you the last time we met, son?’
I remembered, but didn’t let on. Shrugged out a ‘Not really.’
The crowd didn’t like that, let out whoops and hisses. It was high drama for these idiots. Serious as pay-per- view sports.
Shaky felt the crowd baying for blood. ‘String the cunt up.’
My hands were tugged behind my back, then a rope was tightened. One of the butcher’s hooks got dragged along the rail; the shrill shriek of it set my spine on edge. I was raised up and my tied hands attached to the hook. The pain as my body’s weight pulled at my shoulder blades was an agony. I wailed out in utter defeat.
The group laughed and cheered, a few banged tins of beer together. Shaky walked beneath me where I hung… ‘Now, see that Laird laddie – he wasn’t strung up like that, Dury. He had the rope round his fucking neck… Would you prefer that?’
I started to sweat. The pain felt as if my shoulders would explode at any moment. It’s funny how, faced with your own destruction, all notions of bravery leave you. I managed some words: ‘No… no.’
‘What’s that?’ Shaky cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Think I missed it!’
‘I said no… No, I don’t want strung up like Ben Laird.’
Jeers, some clapping. Laughter ringing off the walls.
Shaky didn’t seem to like my response, though. He snapped, ‘Then why the fuck are you still padding about this toon trying to rake into the cunt’s death?’ He grabbed my jacket collar, pulled me down closer to him. ‘Eh, answer me that. Did you just choose to forget what I warned you, Dury? That it? You making a cunt oot ay me? Or are you just plain fucking stupid?’
I couldn’t speak now. The pain was too much; I passed out.
When I came to, Shaky was stood over me, smoking a cigarette. He put the filter-tip in my mouth, played up to me. ‘Answer me this, Dury… what’s your fucking game here, eh? Who’s working your strings? Cos either you have some serious back-up or yer on a death wish… which is it?’
I had nothing to lose by laying my cards on the table so I said, ‘I’m not the one you need to worry about.’
‘Eh? What you fucking on about?’ I had his attention.
‘There’s worse than me you could cross.’
He arked up, grabbed my hair and pulled back my head, ‘Stop pissing me about here, son. Say what you’ve got to say or I’ll put you back up on that fucking hook, and no’ by the hauns this time.’
He let go my hair, my head slumped forward. ‘I know about Ben Laird and Gemmill… about the money he owed and that you want to see the case closed so it doesn’t come back to you…’
‘Well, if you know that, what are you fucking playing at?’
I gasped for breath. Took a gamble: ‘This goes higher up than you think… the filth are all over this.’
‘Are you on about that mad Irish bastard?’
‘You’ve met Fitz?’
‘Creeping about, rattling folks’ cages… He’s no’ playing the game.’
I spat, ‘And neither are you.’
Shaky’s eyes burned. ‘What the fuck you on about?… Now, spit it oot!’
I played my one and only card; it was no ace, but it was all I had. ‘I know you don’t want the kid’s murder laid at your doorstep, so you need to let me get Gemmill out the frame… Trust me, if he didn’t do it, I’ll find out.’
‘He didn’t fucking do it! But you think that’s gonna stop the polis hanging it on him, and my business out tae dry with him?’
I felt my breath seep out slowly. I was close to collapse again. Had little or no energy resources left to draw on. ‘If I get Gemmill off… are we quits?’
Shaky nodded. ‘Aye, oh aye…’
‘And Hod?’
His answer came slower this time: ‘You get our Danny in the clear and yourself and Hod are of no interest tae me.’
I managed a dim smile before my eyes closed on me and the room fell into blackness.
