or Queen's Hall.
Clusters of young people, standing in doorways and the corners of buildings. Voices low, eyes scanning.. Rebus saw crime where none existed; or perhaps it was that he was attuned to the possibility of crime. Had the midnight revels always been this harsh and alarming? He didn't think so. The city was changing for the worse, and no amount of imaginative construction in glass and concrete could hide the fact. The old city was dying, wounded by these roars, this new paradigm of... not lawlessness exactly, but certainly lack of respect: for surroundings, neighbours, self.
The fear was all too apparent in the tense faces of the elders, their theatre programmes tightly rolled. But there was something mixed in with the fear: sadness and impotence. They couldn't hope to change this scene: they could only hope to survive it. And back home they would collapse on the sofa, door locked and bolted, curtains or shutters closed tight. Tea would be poured into the pot biscuits nibbled as they stared at the wallpaper and dreamed of the past.
There was a scrum outside Rebus's chosen shop. Cars had drawn up kerbside, music blaring from within. Two dogs were attempting to copulate, cheered on by their youthful owners as girls squealed and looked away. Rebus went inside, the glare forcing his eyes closed for a moment. A pack of lorne sausage, four rolls. Then up to the counter for cigarettes. A white poly bag to take his purchases home. Home meant turning right, but he turned left.
He needed to pee, that was all, and the Royal Oak was near by. Just off the main drag, the place never seemed to close. Thing was, he could use their toilet without entering the bar, so it wasn't as if he was going there to drink. You walked through the doorway, and the bar was straight ahead through another door, but if you headed down the stairs, that's where the toilets were. The toilets, plus another, quieter bar. The upstairs bar at the Oak was famous. Open late, and always, it seemed, with live music. Locals would sing the old songs, but then some Spanish flamenco guitarist might do his piece, followed by a guy with an Asian face and Scots inflections playing the blues.
You never could tell.
As Rebus made for the stairs, he looked in through the window. The pub was tiny, and packed this night with gleaming faces: old folkies and hardened drinkers, the curious and the captivated. Someone was singing unaccompanied. Rebus saw fiddles and an accordion, but resting while their owners concentrated on the rich baritone voice. The singer was standing in the corner. Rebus couldn't see him, but that's where all eyes were focused. The words were by Burns: What force or guile could not subdue, Through many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitors' wages...
Rebus was halfway down when he stopped. He'd recognised one of the faces. Back up he went, his face a bit closer to the window this time. Yes, seated next to the piano: Cafferty's pal, the one from the Bar-L. What was his name? Rab, that was it. Sweating, hair slick. His face was jaundiced, eyes dull. His fist was wrapped around what Rebus took to be a vodka and orange.
And then the singer took a step forward, and now Rebus saw who it was.
Cafferty.
The English steel we could disdain, Secure in valour's station, But English gold has been our bane - Such a parcel of rogues in a nation...
As the verse ended, Cafferty glanced towards the window. He was smiling grimly as Rebus pushed open the door, starting the final verse as Rebus made his way to the bar. Rab was watching, trying to place him perhaps. One of the barmaids took Rebus's order: a half of Eighty and a whisky. There was no conversation in the bar, respectful silence and even a tear in one patriot's eye as she sat on her stool with her brandy and Coke raised to her lips, her ragged boyfriend stroking her shoulders from behind.
When the song finished, there was applause, a few whistles and cheers. Cafferty bowed his head, lifted his whisky glass and toasted the room. As the clapping subsided, the accordionist took it as his cue to commence. Cafferty accepted a few compliments as he made his way to the piano, where he leaned down to mutter something in Rab's ear. Then, as Rebus had known he would, he came over to the bar.
'Something to ponder, come the election,' Cafferty said.
'Plenty of rogues in Scotland,' Rebus said. 'I can't see how independence would mean less of them.'
Cafferty wasn't going to rise to it. Instead, he toasted him, emptied his glass, and ordered another. 'And one for my friend Strawman.'
'I've got one,' Rebus said.
'Be nice to me, Strawman. I'm celebrating coming home.' Cafferty eased a folded newspaper out of his pocket, placed it on the bar top. It was folded at the commercial property section.
'In the market?' Rebus asked.
'I might be,' Cafferty said with a wink.
'What for?'
'I hear there's a killing to be made, way the Old Town is now.'
Rebus nodded towards the piano, where Rab had angled his chair, the better to watch the bar. 'He's not just on the booze, is he? What is it, jellies?'
Cafferty looked over towards his minder. 'Place like the Bar-L, you take whatever you need. Mind you,' he smiled, 'I've been in cells bigger than this.'
Two glasses of malt had arrived. Cafferty added a dribble of water to his, while Rebus watched. Rab seemed to him such an unlikely companion - doubtless fine in a place like the Bar-L; you'd need muscle there. But out here, back on his home ground where he had all the men he needed, what was it tied Cafferty to Rab, Rab to Cafferty? Had something happened in jail... or was something happening out here? Cafferty was holding the jug above Rebus's glass, awaiting a reaction. Rebus nodded eventually, and when the pouring was done raised the glass.
'Cheers,' he said.
'Slainte.' Cafferty took a sip, let it roll around his mouth.
'You seem surprisingly chipper,' Rebus told him, lighting a cigarette.
'What good's a long face going to do?'
'You mean apart from cheering me up?'
'Ah, you're a hard man. I sometimes wonder if you're not harder than me even.'
'Want to put it to the test?'
Cafferty laughed. 'In my current condition? And you with a face like thunder?' He shook his head. 'Another time maybe.'
They stood in silence, Cafferty applauding when the accordionist finished. 'He's French, you know. Barely a word of English.' Then, to the musician: 'Encore! Encore, mon ami!'
The accordionist acknowledged this with a bow. He was seated at one of the tables, a guitarist beside him tuning up for the next slot. When he began to play again, something a little more sombre this time, Cafferty turned to Rebus.
'Funny, you bringing up Bryce Callan the other day.'
'Why?'
'Just that I'd been meaning to call Barry, see how old Bryce was doing.'
'And what did Barry say?'
Cafferty looked down into his drink. 'He didn't say anything. I got as far as some dogsbody, who told me he'd pass my message on.' His face was dark, but he laughed anyway. 'Wee Barry still hasn't got back.'
'Wee Barry is a big player these days, Cafferty. Maybe he can't afford to be seen with you.'
'Aye, well, good luck to him, but he'll never be a quarter the man his uncle was.' He drained his glass; Rebus felt obliged to order refills. Between times, he drained his half-pint and the blended whisky which had accompanied it, so he could now concentrate on the malt. Why the hell was Cafferty telling him all this?
'Maybe Bryce did the right thing,' Cafferty said, as their drinks came. 'Getting out like that, retiring to the sun.'
Rebus added water to both glasses. 'You thinking of following him?'
'I might at that. I've never been abroad.'
'Never?'
